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Game Bet

Richard Forrest writing as Stockton Woods

MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM

For Cassie Forrest

CHAPTER 1

He would have a perfect shot at the President of the United States.

The motorcade would pass below his window, crowds would strain at the police barricades, and when the open limousine slowed to make the sweep around Gardner Street, his field of fire would be wide open. It would be nearly impossible for any competent marksman to miss—and he was the best.

Earlier, he had lowered the Venetian blinds in the vacant office, and now he raised one ten inches. He pressed the small dab of putty firmly against the glass at the corner of the window just above the sill. When the putty was in the center of the circle he intended to cut, he pressed the glass cutter firmly against the window and began a biting circular slash.

When the cutter’s edged circle was complete, he removed the glass by holding onto the putty the glass pulled away from the window, and he laid it gently on the floor, away from where he would crouch.

The small hole would be undetectable from the street or nearby buildings. Now his line of sight was completely unimpeded.

He lowered the Venetian blind until its leading edge just tipped the top of the small hole. Stepping backward a few feet, he took a sighting. He shook his head. The blind was so low that it obscured vision and might allow for distortion in his estimate of the progress of the motorcade. He raised the blind halfway, stepped back again and nodded in satisfaction.

The felt-lined attaché case lay open in the center of the room, and he picked up the barrel and trigger housing of the field-stripped Garand. He hefted the pieces a moment before he began to assemble the weapon.

It was 10 A.M. Thursday morning.

It had begun five days before.

“Pull!”

Cory kept the shotgun angled toward his feet until he saw the small clay pigeon whirl upward. He jerked the weapon to his shoulder, took a lead on the small disc, and immediately felt the reassuring recoil of the shot against his shoulder. The clay disintegrated within his shot pattern.

The shooter to his right shouted, “For Christ sake, Cory, don’t you ever miss?”

“If I can see it, I can hit it.”

“Modest fellow, isn’t he?” was Joe Page’s comment from the position to his left.

Ominous dark clouds that had been scudding across the sky all afternoon now merged into a large black mass that began to release a barrage of pelting rain.

“I’m for calling it a day,” Ed Robinson said. “O.K. with you fellows?”

“Come on,” Cory replied. “You’re not made out of soap. A little rain won’t hurt.”

“Your shooting will,” Robinson said as he slapped a twenty-dollar bill in Cory’s hand and started back toward the clubhouse.

“Me too, Cory.” Joe Page broke his shotgun and extracted the brass. Curling the weapon over his arm, he fished for his wallet and handed Cory another twenty. “Why do I bet against you? That’s what I want to know.”

“A fool and his money,” Cory said as he watched Page follow Robinson back to the house. He ejected the remaining shells from his shotgun and deftly caught them as they flew from the chamber. He pointed the barrel upward and pulled the trigger on an empty chamber as a safety precaution, and turned to leave the post. He turned the shotgun upside down to keep moisture from seeping down the barrel and began to trot.

The slanting rain partially obscured the Norfolk Hunt Club buildings, which were set on a knoll overlooking the twelve hundred acres of its domain. The house’s upper clapboard stories were now clouded in rain mist, giving the building an eerie appearance.

Cory put the shotgun inside the back-door vestibule and turned back into the rain. He began to run in easy loping strides down the main path that cut through the middle of waist-high meadow grass. The rain streamed over his face and down his forehead in short rivulets, partially blinding him. The synchronization of breath and body and the quiet pad of his boots against the soft ground gave him a feeling of well-being.

He came to a low stone wall. With no farmers to walk the walls each spring, the rocks piled so carefully for generations were now gradually falling to the side. He jumped the wall with ease and continued running.

The land for the Norfolk Club had been purchased cheaply fifty years before, most of it picked up for taxes from impoverished farmers. Although there were no official bylaws for the club, it had been understood that the initial fifty members could only be replaced by death or resignation. Membership was usually inherited, although occasionally, with no male issue in the area, a new member might be “invited.” After his fourth term in Congress; Cory’s father had been asked to join, and membership had passed to Cory on his father’s death.

The dues were remarkably low, since several large bequests, now held in conservative trusts, provided the bulk of the financing for the club—an important fact that allowed Cory to continue membership.

The original farms had long ago turned fallow, and were overgrown with second- and third-growth timber that covered fields so laboriously wrested from the land two hundred years ago. Only low stone walls and an occasional house foundation marked by a free-standing chimney signaled the graves of deceased farms.

While the rocky farm land, painfully cleared over the centuries, would return to its natural state in a few years, animal life that had been blown, blasted, and torn from the fields and sky was harder to replace.

Deer had eventually returned. Quail and pheasant brought in by the truckload had flourished, while wild turkey did not.

As Cory’s run neared the tree line that was the approach to August Ridge, he turned and began to jog back toward the house. The center portion of the club building had once been a large farmhouse. Its square lines seemed to have invited additions, and now the internal structure was a maze of a dozen bedrooms, dining room, bar, game room, and kitchen.

It was a rough-hewn place, whose attraction was probably more its exclusivity than its accommodations.

In his room, Cory shucked off his clothes and spread a blanket on the floor. He sat naked, Indian fashion, on the blanket as he screwed a cleaning rod together and began to run cotton gun patches down the bore of the shotgun. He cleaned the weapon carefully, and left a thin film of oil in the barrel and working parts before he replaced the gun in its case. He showered, toweled, and dressed in slacks, a flannel shirt, and soft leather moccasins.

Page, Robinson, and Lewis were in the taproom sipping drinks when Cory entered and mixed a martini at the bar.

Thursday: 10:14 A.M.

He sat cross-legged in the center of the floor of the vacant office, with the rifle on his knees. He pulled back the bolt and left the chamber open for a moment before he reached in and pushed down on the receiver. The bolt snapped shut with a clack.

He worked the bolt several more times before he took a single cartridge from his pocket. He held the projectile between two fingers a moment, staring at it. With a half smile he inserted the bullet carefully into the rifle chamber until it was properly seated. The bolt clacked forward again, and he slipped on the safety.

Joe Page was an accountant, or more specifically, a CPA with his own large firm in downtown Deerford. He was a tall, thin, nearly cadaverous man whose years of meticulous work had imposed on him a sheen of quiet contemplation.

Ed Robinson was a vice-president of marketing for an insurance company. He was an affable man with a mane of white hair and a faintly flushed complexion. He drank Rob Roys.

“Don’t spill martini juice on the news.” Norm Lewis had spread a newspaper across the bar and was engrossed in the editorial page.

Ruth Lewis sat in a far corner of the taproom, with reading glasses perched on the end of her nose and a pencil between her teeth as she concentrated on a crossword puzzle. She was a honey blonde of thirty-two whose figure was lithe and athletic.

Cory looked at her as he drank his martini. The liquor burned and did nothing to decrease the feelings he still had toward the woman seated in the corner.

He had loved her.

He had known her for two months a year during his whole early life. Their parents had nearby summer cottages on the Connecticut shore, and their relationship had matured through the studied disinterest of preadolescence, the false disdain of pubescence, and finally matured into deep interest in their later high school years.

They had begun to date seriously the summer after her graduation from Deerford High and his from Choate. Their proximity during the warm summer, when they both worked as life guards for the Beach Association, had resulted in what Cory considered at the time a serious affair.

When they left for college, Ruth had cried and vowed to write him “nearly” every day and to see him at least once a month. It had started out that way, but Wellesley was nearer to Harvard, where Norm matriculated, than it was to Cory’s dorm in New Haven.

He had never been sure which of them had made love to her first, and he wondered if she remembered.

After his father died, Cory had dropped out of Yale and hitchhiked across the country. It had been a bummer year filled with dark places, drugs, and a haze of events. It had culminated in a San Francisco recruiting office where he had barely passed the army physical. The constricted and structured army life had been a physical and mental salvation, and would have continued if his career had not been abruptly terminated.

Norm Lewis pounded the bar with sufficient force to startle everyone in the room. “That son of a bitch has done it again!”

“Who’s done what?” Joe Page asked.

“That meatball we have for a President. This crap about arms reduction is going to put us in a red bed.”

“They must know what they’re doing down there,” Page said.

The rain beat a heavy tattoo against the frame window at the end of the room, and the slap of Robinson’s and Page’s cards added to the rhythm.

“Like hell they do! Oswald, where are you when we need you?”

Robinson stopped with a card poised in mid-air and looked toward Norm Lewis with a wry face. “That’s not even remotely funny.”

“Sure.” Norm went back to his reading, and the room was quiet again except for the angry weather.

Cory finished the last of his drink and poured another. He would have to watch his rate of consumption, or they would have to pour him into the dining room at dinnertime.

He leaned against the far end of the bar and watched Norm Lewis read, and wondered again at their adult animosity. As adolescents they had been close. Cory had looked forward to each Congressional recess and the family’s return to the large frame house they maintained in West Deerford. Norm lived two blocks away, in a large rambling stucco house of Spanish motif partially surrounded by a high wall that contained one of the most important fixtures of adolescent life—an inground heated swimming pool.

Norm had taught him to swim and dive. Cory’s rough form was a parody of the other boy’s flawless technique. Norm had been the leader, and Cory had gladly followed. It had continued that way for years, through almost two score remembrances of pranks, girls, fast cars, and a slow march to maturity.

The relationship had taken years to change into a malicious competitiveness. Perhaps Ruth had been the beginning of it, but it seemed to transcend their mutual vying for a girl. Their feelings had somehow turned dark, into a skewered caricature of their early relationship. Now they dealt with each other in a cool accommodation. They had seen little of each other in recent years except for accidental meetings such as this weekend.

Ruth Lewis pushed away from her table and walked over to the window. “And to think I might have gone to New York this weekend and seen a show.”

“Who gave you a choice?” was Norm’s mumbled answer.

She gave him a darting look and walked to the door. “In case anyone is interested. I’m going to take a nap.”

She looked past her husband, hunched over his newspaper, directly at Cory. Their eyes met. He returned her gaze until she turned and left the room.

He felt a little chagrined, engaging in a casual flirtation whose only purpose would be to “get” Norm.

Norm was still groaning under his breath as he finished the paper. The two men were both in their early thirties, and there the resemblance stopped. While Cory was over six feet, with wide shoulders and an open face, Norm was several inches shorter, thin, with narrow face and features.

Ed Robinson left the card game while Joe Page shuffled the deck. He stood-for a moment looking pensively out of the window. “There sure in hell won’t be any more shooting today.”

“What difference does it make as long as Cory’s here? He always wins.”

Norm looked up from his paper at Cory. “Is that right? There really is something you do well?”

“More than one thing.”

“Claims he can hit anything he can see,” Robinson said from the window.

“Anything?” Norm smiled crookedly.

“That’s right. Anything I can see.” He had meant it as a funny macho statement summing up a rainy day’s reflection by several bored men, but now it had come out as an oblique attack on Norm Lewis. An attack demanding retort or acknowledgement.

There was a nearly inaudible sigh from Norm. “For Christ sake, Cory, that’s a bunch of crap! There are a dozen factors involved in a shot: weather, type of ammo, motion of the target …”

Cory looked toward the window and the distant ridge line. He envisioned a target three hundred meters away, near the trees. The driving rain would obscure visibility, and intermittent gusts of wind would rock a weapon, no matter how tightly clinched. A telescopic lens would streak with rain and fog, but all these factors could be accommodated for with the exception of one variable. He turned to face Norm. “I hold to my original point.” He paused. “With one possible exception, motion.”

Lewis guffawed. “OK, Cory. We get the picture. You can hit anything as long as it’s stationary, on a clear day, with the wind to your rear and nothing making you nervous.”

“And not hung over,” Joe Page added and began to mix a drink behind the bar.

Cory held his hand in front of his body, palms out. “All right. So I’m qualifying, but I still mean it. Give me a stationary target that I can see and that’s still for oh, say, three seconds, and I can hit it.”

“Given the proper weapon?”

“That goes without saying.”

A burst of wind rattled the shutters of the old, building and whined across the eaves as it skipped down the valley. Joe Page gave a final twirl to his cocktail shaker and poured a glass. “A couple more of these, and I won’t even need a rifle to get a target.”

Laughter.

“Back to the point,” Norm said. “Given a choice of weapon, a temporarily stationary target, and you can hit it?”

“Of course.”

“Bullshit!” They all looked toward Ed Robinson, now slumped in a large leather chair. “You guys don’t know what you’re talking about. Cocktail banter on a rainy afternoon. Verbal diarrhea. Go play poker, where you can bluff each other to hell and back honestly.”

“I mean what I say, Eddy,” Cory said levelly.

“You probably do, and you don’t know what in hell you’re talking about.”

“I think I do.”

“Let me ask you a question. Were you in the service?”

“Army.”

“Were you ever in combat?”

“Well, no. I trained at Fort Benning and served in Nam, but I was never in a line company.”

“What’s the point, Eddy?”

The white-haired man sat erect and sipped his drink. “You guys can talk about targets, scopes, windage, and all that from now till the eagle screams, and it doesn’t mean bat shit. It’s a different ball game when you face other men with loaded weapons.”

Cory gulped the remainder of his drink and leaned against the bar. “I stand behind my statement.”

“You’re forgetting the human factors: nerve, imagination, call them what you will. Let me tell you something. I was a platoon leader at Normandy in World War Two, and I was recalled as a company commander during Korea. Facts—more than half the guys in my units would never fire a shot. That’s right, not even pull the trigger of their goddamn weapons during a fire fight. And the other half didn’t aim; no one did. Those of us who did fire, shot in the general direction of the enemy … high, low, hell, just in the general direction.”

“You’re talking about eighteen-year-old kids in combat for the first time.”

“Then I’ll talk about myself. I’ll tell you about a little confrontation I had with something that wasn’t even armed and almost killed me.”

“What’s that?”

“A bear. A goddamned bear. I was hunting in Alaska and had a local guide with me. I was leading the way through a winding rocky draw when this damn bear comes around a bend and stands facing me six feet away. I had a 30.06 loaded, safety off, and I froze. The thing would have had me for dinner if the guide hadn’t dropped him.”

“A two-time combat veteran, and you froze?”

“Damn right! Like a five-foot ten-inch iceberg. I stood there like a dodo.”

“So?”

“You armchair marksmen cooped up for a rainy afternoon, drinking, are a far cry from the guy in the bush hunting real game, or better yet, facing another man with a rifle.”

Cory went behind the bar and searched through the small refrigerator for orange juice. He found a bottle of juice and mixed an orange blossom. “I see your point, Eddy. What you’re saying is that the trained marksman, no matter how good he is, is going to be rattled and inaccurate when he’s facing a real adversary.”

“Exactly. Put your man up against anything that has the capability of destroying him, and the shooter’s in a different ball game. Hell, why do you think every modern army in the world has switched to a machine-gun-type small arm? All you have to do now is point in the general direction and pull the trigger.”

Norm Lewis spread his arms wide. “Thus endeth today’s lesson. Eagle-Eye Cory Williams is puteth in place.”

“Uh huh,” Cory replied. “Give me a couple of seconds at my target, and I’ll hit it. The hell with other conditions.”

“You think Ed’s full of it?”

“I think training counts.”

“Money where your mouth is.”

“You name it.”

“Ten thousand to your hundred.”

Joe Page whistled. “You guys are nuts.”

Norm folded his newspaper into a roll and pointed it toward Cory. “You know, old boy, if you really wanted to do us all a favor, you’d knock off the Pres when he comes to town next Thursday.”

“That’s not funny.”

Norm smiled. “Too bad your old man isn’t still around. He would have made a better president than that turkey we’ve got.”

“Dad didn’t have any ambitions in that direction.”

“I know, but it’s still too bad he didn’t run. At least we would have known we had the best president money could buy.”

It was an immediate reflexive action. Cory careened across the room; one hand grabbed Norm’s shirt, and the other was brought back for a blow to the face. Robinson and Page pinned his arms.

Robinson’s voice was commanding. “Both of you! Knock it off!”

Norm smiled. “Sorry, Cory. My apologies. Shake?” He extended his hand.

Cory reluctantly shook and went back to the far end of the bar and sat before his drink. His anger was gradually replaced by nostalgia for long-lost things. The final and irrevocable line had now been drawn between him and Norm. Any pretense they might have maintained for the sake of older times was now dissipated in that hurting remark.

“You still on for the wager?”

Cory didn’t answer.

“I have a way to test our argument.”

“No more, OK, guys?” Ed Robinson grunted from across the room.

Cory looked at his ex-friend. Their eyes met. The broker’s were a slate opaque color as the edge of his mouth curled in a faint grin. “Want to hear?”

“I bite.”

“We’ve already decided that the toughest game is man himself.”

“We won’t even debate that old chestnut.”

“But only if our adversary has the ability to return fire or otherwise protect himself by putting the hunter’s life in jeopardy.”

“No argument there. Are you going to suggest that we have a dawn meeting by the old oak tree, at ten paces, with cap-and-ball muzzle loaders?”

“I’m not risking my ass.”

“Then?”

“The President.”

“Who?”

“The President of the United States.”

“Oh, Christ!” Robinson said and walked to the door. “It’s too heavy to shovel in here. I’m taking Ruth’s advice and grabbing forty winks before dinner.”

Joe Page looked startled but curious.

“I’m sick of games, Norm.”

“Same money as I said before, and no one gets hurt.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“The President’s due in Deerford next week.”

“On Thursday, for a fund-raising luncheon.”

“I say you select your weapon and pick your spot. Before you do, I mount a camera on your rifle. I’ll seal the mounting so you can’t tamper with it.”

Cory laughed. “The old pretend-to-fire but take-the-picture-of-the-game-instead game.”

“You’ve got it.”

“Except that there will be ten million secret-service and local cops on the scene. Guys who won’t know what game we’re playing. If they see me pointing a weapon at the chief, they’re not going to ask about my camera. I get blown away.”

“That’s the testing, old top.”

Joe Page laughed. “I think he’s called you out, Cory.”

“A man would be a fool to take a bet like that,” Cory said.

“You know it.”

“Let me hear the ground rules again. You mount the camera on one of my rifles. I assume it has a viewfinder.”

“It would be almost like looking through a scope. You line up the man in the viewfinder and push the shutter, except you snap a picture instead of sending off a round.”

“And those are the only rules?”

“You set up the rest of the situation yourself. The only problem is, if anyone sees you with the rifle and camera, it will look like the real thing.”

“And they’ll shoot me before asking questions.”

“That’s what makes it interesting.”

Their eyes met again, and Norm gave Cory the same enigmatic smile.

“You’re on,” Cory said.

CHAPTER 2

Thursday: 10:41 A.M.

The motorcade was running late, which was not unusual. Cory had been in several as a young boy, with his father, and they never were on time. The rifle was on his knees; he got to his feet, holding the weapon, and walked to the window.

There were men on the roof of the building across the way with binoculars.

He stepped far back from the window in order to remain unseen and snapped the rifle to his shoulder. A quick glance through the viewfinder brought the men on the right into focus. His finger brushed against the safety.

It would be an easy shot.

Where was the damn motorcade? The waiting was making him nervous.

Saturday night.

He lay in bed staring at the dark ceiling and glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. Two. The day’s excessive consumption of liquor had jangled his nerves, and he couldn’t sleep. In guilt-warped concentration he thought about the afternoon’s conversation. He knew his reactions had been tainted, that he had been urged and manipulated into areas of false macho commitment that he usually avoided. Long-buried forces and feelings concerning his lost friend had allowed him to be goaded into a compromising situation.

And yet he was tempted to perform the wager. If he won, Norm was good for the money, and God only knows Cory needed the money. He toyed with the idea. It wasn’t as if there were a moral dilemma involved. He wasn’t going to hurt anyone. He would only be placing himself in jeopardy. Of course, there was risk; that was the essence of the bet. There was always the possibility of his being seen and either shot or arrested … or perhaps both.

The money hovered in the room like a dark specter. Ten thousand would allow him to get even with Vito. And Vito had become very impatient lately.

Cory had been in nearly the same situation last year, and he had gone to his brother, Steve, for the money. They hadn’t written or seen each other since.

Cory writhed on the bed as he thought about the last visit to his brother.

“Five thousand for what?” His older brother stood before the open fireplace in his Wellesley, Massachusetts home and twirled an after-dinner brandy snifter.

“Do I have to give you a balance sheet on my complete financial picture?”

“No, of course not, but I’d like a hint as to what you want it for. Believe it or not, Cory, five thousand is still a lot of money to me. The girls are in college, and the upkeep on this white elephant is astronomical. You don’t even have dependents. How much do they pay you at the bank?”

“Twenty-five per.”

“Then what’s dragging you down?”

“Three hundred a month car payments, another four for the apartment …”

His brother’s silence meant his legalistic mind was calculating tax bites, net pay, and ordinary expenses for food and clothing. When the figures were allotted to their proper places, his brother frowned. “It can’t be a girl; even an abortion doesn’t cost that much these days. Are you involved in an investment scheme? For God’s sake, are we playing twenty questions?”

“I’m in hock to my book.”

“What kind of book?”

“Bookie.”

“Seriously, little brother.”

“I lost forty-five hundred on the Series.”

“You are serious.” His brother seemed transfixed at his place by the fireplace, and the swirling brandy lay still in the large snifter.

He had gotten the money then at a cost of a lengthy lecture delivered in proper Bostonian legal platitudes. He had slouched back in the easy chair and listened. He had to listen, for he needed the money then as much as he needed it now.

Cory was an inveterate gambler. He played the horses, the dogs, and bet on any type of sporting event whose results were published in the newspapers and for which his bookie had a line.

They took his money. They took it with feigned reluctance. They occasionally called him on “sure things” that came in to give him a little back, but the money always returned to the hopper. It churned into losses as he played, and he played to the limit of his credit and then some.

He had never been quite sure where the compulsion to gamble originated. His mother and father had been vigorous bridge players who occasionally played for a tenth of a cent a point. There didn’t seem to be gamblers in his New England heritage. Past generations of Connecticut Yankees were too austere, frugal, and hard-working to fritter away hard-earned money.

His father only stole.

In retrospect he had often wondered exactly when in his father’s twenty-two year sojourn in Congress he had begun to steal. The Congressional Ethics Committee hadn’t been so blunt. They had couched the charges in appropriate terms that were not nearly so harsh. As he recalled, the charges were: misappropriation of campaign funds, erroneous travel vouchers, and irregularities on the staff payroll. Friends had done their best to save his father from the debacle, but the evidence had been overwhelming.

Cory had taken a leave of absence from his sophomore year at college in order to sit in the first row of the visitors’ gallery during the hearings. In the beginning he had been angry, furiously applauding his father’s defense, and during recess telling everyone available about the “smear” mounted against an honorable public servant.

But the damning evidence had inexorably built a façade of petty pilfering. Cory watched his father age before his eyes.

The night after the day Congress censured his father, Cory had received an hysterical phone call in their Georgetown home. The caller, one of the office irregulars, had nearly screamed for help, and finally managed to mumble her address.

He had left the house without informing his mother and rushed to the young woman’s address to find his father naked in bed, dead of a heart attack.

It had taken an hour to dress and move his father to his parked car. Then he called the ambulance.

He had always hoped his mother never knew. He suspected that she did, but they had never spoken of it.

He hadn’t been able to return to college, and the “bad” year had followed. It was ironic that guns had been his salvation. There had always been a dozen or more rifles and handguns around the Williams household. Connecticut manufactured more weapons than any state in the union, and his father’s antigun-control positions had produced a largesse of gift weapons.

Cory’s early years of shooting had paid off in the army. He had been assigned to the infantry after firing the highest score ever recorded on his basic-training rifle range. He served as a rifle instructor for a short time at Fort Benning, Georgia, until entering Officer’s Candidate School. He graduated as a second lieutenant and he had been assigned to the Infantry Center’s Light and Heavy Weapons School, after he finished jump training.

Although his orders to Viet Nam included potential assignment as an infantry platoon leader, he had spent his entire tour as a sniper instructor at a large reception camp outside Saigon.

Cory had returned from Viet Nam a captain and had seriously begun to think in terms of a military career. A great many aspects of service life appealed to him: the social order, and he liked doing the one thing he did best—shooting.

After the Viet Nam War, along with thousands of other junior officers of reserve rank, he had been “riffed.” The term was an army euphemism for being fired. At the cessation of hostilities, there were far too many young officers available, and his lack of college degree and direct combat experience had made him a prime candidate to be let go.

How do you shoot the President without being caught?

It had been said that the night before his assassination, President Kennedy had stated that any nut with a high-powered rifle who didn’t expect to get away could shoot any President.

Cory expected to get away. He would have one advantage. There would not be an actual rifle shot. The nearly inaudible click of a camera shutter would be the only sound and would alert no one.

He began to consider possibilities.

The planning made him restless to the point where he slipped out of bed and pulled on a terry-cloth robe and soft leather slippers. He padded down the dimly lit hallway and stairs to the taproom. A distant light cast a swatch of illumination across the bar that was bright enough for him to find the cognac.

He poured a stiff two fingers into a small snifter. The first swallow burned but seemed to relax his tense body.

“You’re a fool if you don’t do it.”

He whirled around to face toward a dark corner of the room where a cigarette glowed in the shadows. “Ruth?”

“But as always, you’re playing the game by his rules. Turn it on him, Cory. Take it from me. I’m an expert.”

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he could see her huddled in the corner.

“Pour me one, Cory.”

He fumbled along a row of glasses suspended in the lattice-board ceiling until he found another brandy snifter. He poured and crossed the room to slide the glass across the table.

Her hand appeared out of the dimness and curled around the stem of the snifter. “I knew he’d get to you and you wouldn’t be able to sleep.”

“Where’s Norman?”

“Sound asleep. He always sleeps well when he laughs so hard.”

“What’s so funny?”

“You are. You’ve been had.”

“I hadn’t realized.”

“You will tomorrow when you’re sober and he asks you again to play his game.”

“Maybe I will play. Would he pay off if I did?”

“Norm may be a bastard in a lot of ways, but he would never welch. Sit next to me.”

He sat on the cushioned bench in the corner and felt her thigh press against his. Her breath was gentle against his cheek as she turned to him. Her arms went around his neck. “Could you do it?”

He laughed low. “Depends on what you mean.”

Her voice was husky. “Do it! Do it and screw him! Don’t let him toy with you like he does with me.”

“You could have married me.”

“I didn’t want to spend the next twenty years of my life living in some Quonset hut on a hot army base.”

“Norm’s money was more appealing.”

“It seemed so at the time.”

“Why don’t you leave?”

She laughed. “That’s a long story that I’ll save for a cold winter’s night.” When she kissed him, her body turned so that they pressed together. Her hand ran along the back of his neck as his slid through a part in her gown to feel the round heavy weight of her breast. She moaned and pulled away. “You will?”

“Uh huh.” He kissed her again. “There’s a small room in the basement.…”

“I know the place.”

She turned on the narrow bed covered with army blankets and touched him. He ran his hand over the smoothness of her slightly protruding stomach and over the curve of her hip. He laughed. “One problem, Ruth. We’re going to have to wait a few minutes for the next …”

“We’ll see about that.”

He felt her hair brush over his chest and down across his stomach. She was right. It wasn’t going to take long at all.

He must have dozed off, and awoke with a start. She was sitting up with her back against the wall and with a cigarette in her hand. The army blanket was pulled down over her hips, leaving her breasts bare.

“Suppose I hadn’t been the one to come downstairs?” he asked.

She took a long drag on the cigarette and let the smoke stream toward the ceiling. “Then I would have come to your room. But Norm hadn’t been playing with anyone else; you were the one lying awake thinking about the ten thousand.”

“We had better get back to our respective bedrooms. I wouldn’t want Norm coming after me with a 12-gauge.”

“You’re going to take his money?”

“I think the odds are in my favor.” He jackknifed from the bed and slipped into his pajamas and robe. “I’ll go first.”

“I’ll finish my cigarette to give you time to get upstairs.”

He leaned over and kissed her. “You’re the best, Ruth.”

“Call me?”

“Yes.”

Cory eased out of the small basement room and shut the door quietly behind him. A dim light at the far end of the cellar hallway burned with a low illumination as it swung from a naked wire. He made his way up the stairs and entered the taproom, where he picked up their snifters and put them out of sight under the bar. He went up the main staircase and slipped into his room.

Tired, he lay back on the bed. She had become a caricature of her former self, but he still wanted her. Or was it another way to get back at Norm?

He fell asleep thinking about Ruth Lewis.

She finished the cigarette and stubbed it out against the bare wall. She peered down by the side of the bed to make sure that no embers still burned. It wouldn’t be appropriate to burn the club down … at least not yet.

She sighed as the door opened.

Norm Lewis stepped inside and looked down at his naked wife. “Well?”

She nodded. “He’s going to do it. I guarantee that he really is going to do it.”

Her husband shook his head. “Fine.”

Her voice was a whine. “Did I do all right?”

“I’m sure you did, sweets. I’m sure you did.”

CHAPTER 3

Thursday: 10:45 A.M.

He stood with his back against the wall, in the empty office. He kept thumbing the Garand’s safety off and on. The live shell lay in the chamber, its projectile nose and casing securely inserted in the barrel, its rear flange exposed to the striking area of the weapon’s firing pin.

Where in hell were they?

“What’s the line on the Sox-Yanks game?”

“Eight to five.”

“For Christ’s sake, they don’t have God pitching.”

“Take it or leave it, Cory.”

“OK, put me down ten times.”

“You know the new house rules. Green up front.”

“Come on, Vito. We’ve been doing business for years.”

“You’re in too deep. In the meanwhile, when do I see action on the back money? Certain parties are getting very impatient.”

“Soon!” He slammed the phone into its cradle with sufficient force to make a clatter. Ann Boynton, his secretary, gave a quick glance back into the office.

Bloodsuckers! They were content to gobble every penny you had until it was gone. Then they hardly knew you. He began to create a line of figures on a scratch pad. How much had he paid Vito since he started with the book? Mustering out pay from the service, the cash settlement from his mother’s estate, two or three thousand a year out of his salary … The figure dismayed him, and he crumpled the paper into a wad and aimed for the wastebasket. He missed.

He felt a surge of anger and looked down at the Texas Shopping Center presentation on the desk in front of him. As a mortgage officer in the Real Estate Department of the Nutmeg National Bank, his present job was to analyze the efficacy of the shopping center for a possible construction loan.

It was the last thing in the world he wanted to do.

He had been home from the army two weeks when the letter arrived from the chairman of the board of the bank. It was a short invitation for a lunch meeting at the bank’s executive dining room on the following Monday.

“We at Nutmeg don’t forget our friends,” the chairman had said over coffee. “I refer, of course, to your father. A fine man and outstanding congressman.”

Cory wondered how much they had paid the old man for favorable banking legislation.

“He always had Connecticut at heart,” the chairman continued.

And half in his wallet, Cory thought. His mother had died a year after his father, shortly after he entered the army. He had always wondered if it were possible to die of a broken heart, or did you just give up living?

“I understand you have given up your military career,” the chairman had said.

“Yes, sir. The army seems to have a superabundance of junior officers.”

“Just as well. There’s no real future in the armed forces.” It was a statement of assurance. “However, we at Nutmeg have always found the discipline inculcated in junior officers stands them in good stead in our various departments. Now, I understand that you never finished Yale?”

“I dropped out after my dad passed away.”

“We don’t usually take young people into our executive training program without a Bachelor’s degree, but in your case, Cory, there’s a spot for you here at the bank if you desire.”

He took the job as there wasn’t anything better to do.

It was only ten o’clock Monday morning, and the week stretched in an infinite line toward Thursday. He had already had a coffee break, but there were still seven more hours of the day that he was chained to the desk.

He pushed his chair back so abruptly that it banged against the credenza aligned along the rear wall. Ann looked up from her typewriter as he walked through the outer office. He gave her a perfunctory wave.

Dan Hawkins was vice-president of real estate for the bank, and Cory’s boss. Through the open door Cory could see the tall, asthenic man with a shock of brown hair hanging over his forehead, bent over a large survey map.

“Is he free?” he asked the secretary.

“He is, and so am I this Friday.”

Cory smiled. She had light hair, nice legs, and a “cheerleader” cuteness. “What happened to Gary?”

“He decided to find himself and left for California.”

“That’s what you get for going out with those younger guys.”

“You wanted to see me, Cory?” Dan Hawkins looked up from his scrutiny of the survey map. “Come in.”

Cory slumped into a side chair at the desk. “Jesus Dan. I feel like a lump of garbage. I think I’m coming down with something.”

Dan removed his glasses and slowly folded them. “Big weekend at the club?”

Cory ignored the remark. “I think I’ve got a virus.”

“Do you want to see the company doc?”

“I want to take a couple of aspirin and go home to bed. Which is exactly what he’ll tell me.”

“What do you have on deck?”

“That Texas center. I’m doing a rent-role analysis, but you won’t need to give it to the loan committee until next Wednesday.”

“OK, get some rest.” He replaced the glasses and bent back over the survey as Cory started for the door. “Oh, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Sure.”

Dan Hawkins twirled his glasses nervously. “There’s been some talk.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t put much credence in office gossip, never did; but sometimes you’re forced to track these things down.”

Cory felt a cold chill. “What sort of talk, Dan?”

“That you’re in pretty deep with a bookmaker.”

“How in hell did that get started?”

“I haven’t the foggiest. I thought you might know.”

“I do place a bet now and again. You know, a few bucks on the Series or the Superbowl, that sort of thing. If you call that heavy gambling, we’d have to take half our staff to the rack.”

“We all do that once in a while.”

“I was kidding with a couple of the guys in Commercial Credit about placing some ridiculous bets.”

“Kidding?”

“What I call coffee-break braggadocio. Hell, anyone with any sense knows that betting large money with the books is throwing money away.”

“I had to ask, Cory. In a bank, with all our fiduciary responsibilities, we have to be careful. That defalcation we had in Trust three years ago still haunts the chairman.”

“I remember. Wilkins, wasn’t it? Blew forty thousand on some blonde.”

“Glad there’s nothing to it. We’ll see you back on deck when you feel better.” He turned back to the survey map as Cory left the office.

Cory calculated his recent sins as he waited for the elevator: one case of adultery, a lie just now to Dan, and worst of all, stupidity. What in hell was Norm Lewis up to with their insane wager?

The recoil rocked Cory’s shoulder as the blast reverberated over the hills.

He fired the remainder of the clip in rapid sequence and then stooped to retrieve his brass. Slinging the Garand over his shoulder, he walked across the field to the target. The bullets had pierced the paper slightly to the right of the center circle. At a hundred yards that wasn’t bad shooting. It was obvious that the rifle was pulling to the right. He would have to zero in the sights. He tore the target off its frame and replaced it with a virgin copy and turned back to the clubhouse.

Will Ratherman, the club’s combination custodian and weekend cook, wore soiled overalls, heavy muddy boots, and needed a shave. He leaned against the porch rail and sucked on a corncob pipe as Cory approached.

“Didn’t expect to see you out here during the week, Mr. Williams.”

“I wanted to get the old M-1 zeroed in.”

“Huntin’ season’s months away, and you can’t use that cannon for deer in this state anyway.”

“I’ll tell you, Will. I was sitting in my cozy little office in the city and I got to worrying about you up here all alone.”

“Like it better during the week, when no one’s here, rather than the weekend, when all the drunks arrive.”

Cory laughed. “Do you know where the spotter scope and bench are?”

“In the cellar. I’ll get them.”

In fifteen minutes Cory had the M-1 mounted on the shooting bench next to the powerful spotter scope on its tripod.

He slowly squeezed off the first shot. Before the echo of the round had ceased bouncing from August Ridge, he had shifted his position to the scope and peered through the eye piece. He was right. It was drawing off center. He made a slight adjustment to the sight and fired another round.

It took three more shots before the sights were perfectly adjusted to compensate for the weapon’s natural deflection. Now each fired round went true. He dismounted the rifle and stood. Loading a full clip, he shot rapid fire toward the small circle one hundred yards down range. All the shots struck the inner circles, three in the center of the bull’s eye. It was good shooting.

He was walking back to the clubhouse with the bench and scope when it struck him. Why was he bothering to zero in a rifle when he was going to use a camera?

What in hell was he doing?

Norm Lewis met Cory in the marble vestibule of the large house, took the encased Garand from his hand, and motioned for Cory to follow him.

They went down a wide hall to the rear of the house. As they passed a book-lined study (each volume bound in identical Moroccan leather, no doubt chosen by a decorater), Cory saw Ruth Lewis, dressed in tight jeans, sitting in an easy chair with her feet curled under her. She was watching television with a drink in her hand. She didn’t turn to look at him.

In the kitchen they entered a narrow doorway to the cellar. Norm’s workroom reminded Cory of something the proverbial mad scientist might have devised if he were interested in carpentry and woodworking. There seemed to be every conceivable type of drill, lathe, and saw in the spotless room.

Lewis removed the Garand from its case and locked it in a vise. He began to mount a long, narrow camera on the rifle, slightly forward of the rear sight. He still hadn’t spoken.

“Don’t jar the sight,” Cory said. “It took me an hour to zero the thing in.”

“What the hell do you care? You’re not going to shoot the President, although that’s not a bad idea. I’ll triple the bet if you use a live round.”

“I’m not even going to answer that. Which raises a question. Why can’t I just use the camera without taking the rifle along?”

Norm looked up from his work. “Because that would take the risk out of it. There will be a hundred guys taking pics of the creep on Thursday, but you’ll be the only one with a rifle.”

“How do I know you’ve got film in there?”

“I don’t. You’re going to buy and insert the film yourself.” He bent back to his work for a few minutes before he loosened the vise and tossed the rifle to Cory.

Cory caught the weapon by the stock. “How does it work?”

“There’s a small plate on the top of the camera that lifts out. See?”

“Right.”

“Drop the film magazine in there and it automatically engages. There’s a reflexive lens that operates nearly like a telescopic sight.”

Cory hefted the rifle to his shoulder and looked through the rear sight and into the camera. “Clear enough. I suppose this little switch to the side is the shutter trip?”

“Easy enough?”

“No secret bullets in there?”

“It’s a camera. Where will you be doing it from? I have to know in order to preset distance and shutter speed.”

“Be?”

“What spot have you picked out? I assume you’re not going to stand on a street curb and raise the gun to your shoulder when the guy’s car passes by.”

“I’ve been thinking of one of the windows in a high-rise office building.”

“The Faber Building?”

“That was my thought. I’d like something on the fourth to eighth floor.” For the second time that day Cory lied. The fact that he had already decided on the Morrison Building, which was set back to the side of the Faber Building, didn’t seem to violate the ground rules of their wager. The few added feet shouldn’t affect the clarity of the photographs dramatically. He had no conscious reason for the falsehood, but somehow felt that a little bluff in any gambling venture wasn’t a bad idea.

Cory raised the rifle again. He pushed the small shutter release and heard the whirr as it tripped. “I load the film and take the picture. Then what?”

“Bring the gun and camera back here as soon as you can. I’ll take the film out and develop it in my darkroom.”

“While I watch.”

“Trusting, aren’t you?”

“For ten thousand dollars, I’ll watch them develop.”

“Suit yourself.” Norm took the rifle and made some adjustments to the camera. “I’ve set shutter and speed. It will take in nearly any visible light. If you try and remove the camera from the weapon, I’ll be able to tell.”

“Good enough. No other rules? As long as I come back with the pictures?”

“That’s right. No other rules. Care for a drink?” Without waiting for an answer Norm strode up the stairs. Cory replaced the rifle in its case and followed.

He found Norm in a room opposite the study, by a dry sink, mixing a pitcher of martinis. The room was lined with glass cases filled with a hundred different types of handguns. Along one wall was a display of early-model Colts. Next to the Colts was a shield of highly burnished wood containing a small silver plaque with the inscription: “Norman R. Lewis—ember of the Committee of One Thousand.”

“Like the Colts?” Norm asked as he handed Cory a drink.

“It looks like a complete collection.”

“It is.”

“What’s the Committee of One Thousand?”

“Just a bunch of police buffs. You know the kind of group I mean. Guys like me who have more money than they know what to do with and like playing cops. If a cop gets killed in the line of duty, we make contributions to his family. In return they let us ride patrol once in a while. Just one of my hobbies.”

“You don’t seem to have room on your walls for the picture of the President.”

“Picture?”

“Since you’re paying rather well for a photograph of the President, I assumed you’d have if blown up and framed.”

“I wouldn’t have a picture of that guy in the john.” He raised his glass in a toast. “To the winner.”

“The winner.” They drank. “Why the game, Norm?”

“Because you won’t do it, old buddy. There’s risk involved, and you’ve lived a life without risk. If you somehow did manage to pull it off, it would prove to me that there’s still some of the old Cory Williams left.”

“I haven’t changed.”

“But you have.”

Cory finished his drink. “See you Thursday.”

The man in Toledo waited until the telephone conversation was made to Deerford, Connecticut before he switched on the scrambler. The possible odds of a phone tap were so remote as to be infinitesimal, but he was a careful man.

“Bishop says the King is vulnerable.”

“Can you do anything?”

“A pawn has been inserted for sacrifice. We’re going for it.”

“Congratulations.”

Both connections were severed without further word. The man in Toledo sat back with his arms behind his neck and smiled.

Cory’s apartment was a one-bedroom affair with an L-shaped living room that provided a dining area. The small kitchen was separated from the eating area by a counter-bar, and barely contained enough room for him to open the oven and refrigerator doors at the same time. There was a miniscule balcony overlooking the city park that he rarely used. He kept the rooms neat but cluttered, with one wall lined with marksman trophies and another with a hundred books on numerous subjects. His reading was extensive although undisciplined, as he ranged from topic to topic as his interest was piqued.

It was a high-rent building, but it boasted an indoor pool that he used for swimming laps three times a week. He was in excellent physical condition but sometimes wondered why he bothered.

He put a card table in the center of the room and spread a map of the City of Deerford across it. He reread the news articles concerning the President’s visit.

Fifteen years ago he had ridden in a presidential motorcade with his father.

This one would be similar. When the limousine approached the intersection near the Morrison and Faber buildings, it would slow for the television cameras which would be mounted on the nearby plaza. No politician could resist the temptation to greet the enthralled throng while under the watchful eye of the camera. The cars would slow, perhaps even stop, as the President leaned from the open vehicle to shake hands.

Cory folded the maps and replaced the table. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep for a while and left the apartment.

There are bars like the Clock and Chime in every city—quiet places for serious drinkers a cut above the beer-and-shot crowd. Each has it own aura: there are gay bars, single bars, and sporting bars. The C and C was sporting for those who sat along the long bar, and a dark place of assignation for those in the lounge area.

Cory had been coming to the C and C for nearly five years, not on a daily basis, but with a certain regularity. He entered and waved at the regulars at the bar as he took his usual stool. He had played liars’ poker with half of the men and made serious wagers with the other half.

Fred, the bartender, began to mix an orange blossom as soon as Cory sat down. “How’s it going, Mr. W.?”

“Not bad. What’s the line on tonight’s game?”

“Seven to four.”

“Can you get me down a couple of times on the Sox?”

“Sure.” Fred poured the cocktail until liquor brimmed the glass and then nodded toward the shaker to indicate that there was more in the hole. “You want to settle with me now for the bet, Mr. Williams?”

“I’ll catch you tomorrow, if I lose.”

The bartender’s lips tightened. He leaned toward Cory conspiratorially. “They’re tightening up on us, Mr. Williams, and I don’t got enough extra cash to lay out myself.”

“I’ll give you a check.”

Fred considered this prospect a moment before rejecting it. “I’ll put it down,” he said reluctantly. He slid out of the bar through the service area and went to a pay phone in the far corner of the room.

Cory felt like a deadbeat but began to think about the rifle. He would have to smuggle it into the building the day before the President arrived. On the morning of the motorcade, he was sure there would be people placed on roofs and in building doorways. They would certainly be watching for anyone carrying long packages into buildings along the parade route. He would have to take it in on Wednesday.

Fred came back to the bar looking disturbed. “You will settle tomorrow, Mr. W.?”

For a guy who was taking a chance with his own life, Cory thought that the rest of the world considered him a loser.

CHAPTER 4

Wednesday: 3:30 P.M.

Cory stood by a newsstand in downtown Deerford and looked up at the three high-rise buildings flanking the street. On his right was the Winchester Building, older than the two fifteen-story buildings on the left side of the street. Of the two newer buildings, the Faber was closest to the street, while the Morrison Building was set back with a plaza and fountain at its front.

He had decided that the Morrison Building would be less obvious and yet still suit his purpose. His position in the farther building would mean a longer shot, but the field of fire would still be clear.

Hell! He wasn’t going to shoot anything more lethal than a camera, and he had better stop thinking in terms like “fields of fire.”

He knew the Faber Building well, as it contained the downtown branch of his bank. He entered the banking floor and took an elevator to the fifth floor. Located next to the elevator and facing the Morrison Building was a vending machine canteen. He deposited coins in the coffee machine and watched as a paper cup fell, jounced to a halt, and canted to the side as it slowly filled with a warmish dark liquid.

The room was empty except for a uniformed hostess, who was wiping tables with a damp cloth. He casually walked over to the window and looked out.

He had a clear view of the Morrison Building, next door, and began to scan the windows above the fifth floor. He found what he was looking for on the seventh floor. It was a small suite of vacant offices with the blinds up and empty paint cans still visible near the window.

It would suit his purposes exactly.

He glanced at his watch: 3:40. The time element was going to be crucial. It would be close, but it had to be this way. He threw the nearly full cup of coffee into a waste receptacle and walked quickly back to the elevator.

Building management for the Morrison Building was located in a small suite of offices on the ground floor. An electric typewriter with a half-completed letter in the platen still hummed, although its occupant was missing. A youngish-looking man in a back office was studiously going through a file folder and looked up when Cory coughed.

“Can I help you?”

Cory entered the office and handed the man one of his business cards. He watched the building manager examine the card. They had been printed last year when Cory was promoted to mortgage officer, and he doubted that in the ensuing months he had handed out more than a dozen. However, he knew that being an officer of the Nutmeg Bank was impressive in Deerford as long as those impressed weren’t aware of his actual salary.

“I have a matter of a confidential nature,” Cory said.

“Anything I can do to help.”

“We at Nutmeg are considering spinning off part of our Real Estate Department into a separate entity held by a holding company. We will subsequently float stock to the general public. We’d like to start small, with office space apart from our other banking facilities.”

“I would think you’d be interested in the Faber Building, next door. The bank already has three floors over there.”

“Exactly. Which is why we need something removed. Something in this vicinity. What we need is a small suite to begin with, with an option to take more space at a later date.”

“We have a suite on the seventh floor with twelve hundred square feet.”

“I’d like to look at it.”

The building manager went into the outer office, followed by Cory, and walked over to a pegboard containing racks of keys. He searched for a moment and then took a set of two keys off a center post. “I can show you the space now. It was just painted, but of course we will repaint to your order.”

Cory lifted the keys from the man’s hand. “I’ll just dash up there and back. Please consider this confidential.” That was imperative, he thought. If the Nutmeg Bank found he was using its influence … The man hesitated. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Cory insisted.

“I can lock the office and …”

Cory nonchalantly waved his hand. “Don’t bother. We can talk price when I return.”

The manager flicked Cory’s business card and then smiled. “Of course, Mr. Williams.”

He had to hurry.

He jabbed the elevator button impatiently. He must remember to put the keys back on the wrong post in the manager’s office when he returned them. It wouldn’t prevent them from using a master key to enter the vacant offices but might give him a little needed time at some point. He checked his watch: 4:04. He was on schedule. He wanted to return the keys as near five as possible, to preclude anyone else’s entering the office before eleven tomorrow.

The elevator arrived, and the doors swished open. He pressed the garage button. His car was parked underneath the building, and he opened the trunk. The rifle, with its mounted camera, was wrapped in a blanket. He field-stripped the weapon to separate the barrel from the trigger housing and stock. He inserted the barrel into a tubular container that had once contained a large survey map. The smaller pieces fit into his attaché case.

On the seventh floor he unlocked the door to the vacant offices and stepped inside. He closed the door and locked it. The rooms smelled of new paint.

A small closet in the corner of the suite was empty, and he placed the attaché case and tube containing the rifle parts in a far corner. He wedged the door as tightly shut as he could by inserting a coin in the door tracks.

The view from the windows was as he expected: the plaza, with its bubbling fountain, stretched toward the street where the motorcade would pass. It would be a simple shot at an estimated one hundred meters.

Tomorrow, the plaza would be filled with onlookers, and the motorcade would slow, as it always had, and he would snap the picture and end the damnable game.

By this time Thursday it would be over, and he would have collected the money from Lewis. Cory left the office, leaving it unlocked, and went back to the building manager’s suite.

The day Cory Williams intended to photograph the President of the United States dawned in a bright spring morning. It was the kind of day that made living in New England worthwhile. The past week’s foul weather had been pushed farther north, and the air-mass movement had temporarily cleared the city of haze that so often hung over Deerford.

He felt logy. The combination hot-cold shower helped some, but the previous night’s spasmodic sleep had taken its toll. He had tossed for an hour, tried to read, but found that he couldn’t concentrate. Two stiff nightcaps had only further jangled his nerves.

When he finally did sleep, the dreams had started. Faceless men chased him across tenement rooftops. Periodically, he would stop, turn toward them, and kneel to fire his rifle. His hands would be empty as his trigger finger moved in empty air, and he would turn to run on.

He decided to jog. He put on a sweat suit and Adidas running shoes and went down to the park across the street from the apartment building. The run helped. The synchronized movement of arms and legs, the perspiration and increase of heart and breathing began to work poisons from his system.

As he jogged, he fell into a nearly mystical state, and his mind filled with clarity and insight. He did four miles and returned to the apartment for another shower.

He felt better until he began to think about it again. Christ! If they caught him in the building with a rifle … camera or not … Even with Norm’s explanations about the wager, there would be hours of questioning, the bank would be embarrassed, and he would be known as a certified nut.

It was too late. He was committed.

He dressed in his most conservative business suit, with white shirt and tie. He would carry a thin attaché case as a further cloak of anonymity. Cory examined himself in the mirror and was satisfied. The uniform he had just donned would dissolve him into a thousand other businessmen in downtown Deerford. His shoulders were too wide, and he was too tall to fall into the usual category of potential assassins, who all seemed to be diminutive bitter men. His jaw was too square, his facial features too jagged and deeply cut to be the face of an inept failure like Oswald or Sirhan. His was the countenance and manner of an up-and-coming banker … or gambler looking for the touch.

He drank a cup of instant coffee and then went to the garage to get the Corvette. As he sat in the darkened underground labyrinth, he thought about the schedule:

10:00—Airport. Presidential jet lands.

10:15—Motorcade forms and starts for Deerford.

10:40—Motorcade turns off highway into downtown area.

10:41—Limousine passes in front of Morrison and Faber buildings.

He looked at his watch. It was nine. Nearly two hours to go, and that was assuming the motorcade was on time. From past experience, he knew it wouldn’t be. There were always delays on presidential trips: a quick conference with a congressman, an impromptu speech at the airport … it would run late, but he had to be ready.

A covey of chattering secretaries stood in the hall on the seventh floor of the Morrison Building. Cory backtracked and reentered the elevator. He rode the elevator to the top of the building and back down again.

They were still there. He noticed that most of them held coffee cups or Styrofoam containers and were grouped around a tall redheaded woman in a tailored business suit.

My God! It was the Avon lady.

Returning to the elevator might tend to draw attention, so without further hesitation Cory entered a nearby office with the legend “Rice Insurance Agency” on the door. The receptionist’s desk was empty. She was probably one of the cluster in the hallway. An older woman seated in the rear of the room looked up.

“May I help you?”

Cory saw a new-model Xerox copier in a far corner. “Yes, I’m with AJAX Copy Company and I’d like to see Mr. Rice.”

“Mr. Rice is dead. Mr. Sweeney is the manager, but we just obtained a new copy machine. I’m sure he wouldn’t be interested.”

The receptionist returned and slid behind her desk and began to examine a lipstick in her hand. He could only assume that the Avon claque in the hall was breaking up. “Thanks anyway.” He stepped out of the Rice office. The group in the hall had dissipated, and the redhead with the sample case was standing by the elevator.

Cory opened the unlocked vacant office and stepped inside. He turned the button locking the door from the inside.

It was 9:32.

He walked to the window, taking care to keep several feet back from the glass in order to remain hidden in the shadows of the inner office. There were two men on the roof of the Faber Building. They carried binoculars and walkie-talkies. He stepped back from the window and moved quickly to the closet and the disassembled rifle. The tubular package and attaché case were exactly where he had placed them. He took the pieces of weapon from their containers and laid them gently on the floor.

At ten he began to cut a small hole in the corner of the window. Later, he assembled the rifle and began to wait.

He was never sure why he had brought the live rounds along. Their very possession placed him in further jeopardy, and perhaps that was the answer.

10:47. Where were they?

He kept pacing past the window. Why wouldn’t they come so he could get out of here?

10:50.

He saw a line of vehicles on the raised highway to the south, and then the motorcycle escort turned down the exit ramp. The crowds in the plaza below and on both sidewalks were heavy as the presidential limousine slowed as it approached.

Cory jammed the rifle sling over his elbow and braced the weapon. He stood a dozen feet back from the hole in the window and waited.

When the limousine pulled abreast of the waiting throngs and the television camera, it stopped. Onlookers burst past the police barricade and surrounded the car. The tall man in the rear of the limousine leaned over the sill and with both hands grasped the outstretched fingers of those surrounding the car.

The two men on the opposite roof were leaning over the parapet, concerned over what was occurring on the street below. Cory raised the rifle and pressed his eye against the reflex viewer of the camera. He made an adjustment to the viewer, and the President’s figure swam into clear view.

Christ, that was an easy shot! It was a clear field of fire over a distance of one hundred meters. The target was stationary, with little wind, and the sight picture was perfect. It would be nearly impossible to miss.

He squeezed the camera shutter. He did it again and a third and fourth time. He heard the nearly inaudible whirr of the camera.

He had the pictures. It was over. He had won.

He decided he would disassemble the rifle and leave it in the packages he had brought them in and retrieve them later.

Something was happening in the street and plaza.

There was now a great deal of new activity. Dismounted motorcycle police were desperately trying to push the crowd back behind the barricades and clear the way for the procession to proceed. They seemed more than zealous in their attempts, as many of the cops were swinging clubs and literally dragging men and women away from the car.

A hoard of uniformed patrolmen and civilian detectives with drawn handguns were pushing their way through the plaza and sidewalk toward the entrance of the nearby Faber Building.

It looked as if the security forces had been alerted to a possible attempt on the President’s life and were now storming the Faber Building.

As Cory’s eyes swept over the scene and past the Faber Building and toward the Winchester Building across the street, he caught a reflected glint. It was a small bright flash that quickly disappeared. It was a nearly subliminal warning, an unconscious feeling of something that shouldn’t be. He knew it was wrong, out of place.

Cory raised the rifle to his shoulder and used the view-finder. The barrel was nearly horizontal as he pointed it across the street at the other building. He peered through the lens and led the rifle across the rows of windows.

He saw him on the sixth floor.

A man with a rifle. A man whose weapon pointed directly toward the figure in the limousine. A man with a high-powered rifle aimed at the back of the President.

It was probably a protecting Secret Service agent.

As soon as Cory formulated the thought, he knew instantly that was not the case. The agents on the Faber roof and the men surrounding the President were turned away from the Winchester Building.

The man in the far window intended to shoot within seconds.

Cory fired without thought.

It was a reflexive action born of thousands of hours spent on firing ranges. Unconscious adjustments for his weapon and its camera, the piercing of window glass, distance, and distortion were made in a millisecond from years of practice and numberless rounds fired at targets.

He had only loaded one live round in the chamber, and the bolt stayed open after he fired. He fumbled in his pocket for the second shell and jammed it in the rifle and pushed down on the receiver.

The bolt clacked forward, cocking the weapon, and he fired again. He felt himself rock back on his heels from the recoil.

The second shot hit the man across the way in the upper torso and knocked him violently away from the window as the rifle flew from his fingers and fell out of sight. Cory lowered his rifle.

It took a portion of a second for the new sound to register. He turned toward the rear wall to see plaster flake and pucker in small holes. The two men on the opposite roof were firing in his direction. The larger of the two held an AR-15 and was methodically squeezing off rounds while the other braced a handgun that fired toward Cory.

The man with the rifle was on semiautomatic, and the shots seemed to walk across the wall. In a second he might push the lever and turn to full automatic, and Cory knew he would be dead. He dropped the Garand and hurled himself sideways. His body hit the floor on his right shoulder, and he rolled away from the exposed windows.

The gunner on the roof had now changed to full automatic. Bullets ricocheted across the small office. The windows were completely shattered by a dozen rounds that poured into the small area.

Cory slithered across the floor, reached for the door handle, and rolled into the hallway.

AR-15 rounds were piercing the office walls into the hallway and embedding themselves in the corridor. Cory hunched over, ran for the elevators, and pushed all the buttons.

On the ground floor an army would be rushing into the building. He needed time. He had to remove himself from the area or some damn fool would shoot him before explanations could be made.

An elevator door opened, and he stepped inside and pushed the Close button and all the buttons for the floors above. He needed time to think and dust his clothes.

They would hit every door in the building. He had to assume that by now motorcycle cops had careened into the basement parking lot. Others would rush for the stairs and elevators, prepared to shoot their way into the vacant office he had occupied.

He stepped out when the elevator doors hissed open on the twelfth floor. The Arcadia Development Corporation was midway down the hall on the side of the building away from the street. It might work; he would give it a try. There was no way he was going to get out of this building without a “beard” to explain his presence.

He stepped through the door of the Arcadia office and smiled at the woman behind the desk. The gray-haired woman with small glasses perched on the edge of her nose looked up and smiled. “Oh, hello, Mr. Williams.”

“Hi, Katherine. Is Mr. Rabinowitz in?”

“I’ll tell him you’re here.” She mumbled a few words into the telephone intercom. “What’s all that commotion outside?”

“The President’s motorcade and his screaming supporters.”

“A great man,” she added. “Old Scrooge wouldn’t let me go watch.”

“Hah!” was the expletive from the other office doorway. “I wouldn’t cross the street to see that cowboy.” Sol Rabinowitz stood in the open door of his office with a hand extended to Cory. He was a heavyset man with deep jowls and a massive bay window. “What was the noise? Sounded almost like shots.”

“Must have been backfires from all those motorcycles.”

“What brings you down here, Cory, besides coming to see our so-called leader?”

Cory shook the developer’s hand firmly. “Only out hustling for business for the bank. Dan Hawkins wants to put out a few million in new construction money—fast. We’re looking for a few projects with a good yield. So I’m pounding the pavement to talk to some of our good customers.”

Rabinowitz’s face beamed for a moment before it fell back to carefully prearranged cynical contortions. “What’s a good yield? One arm, a leg, and my left nut?”

Cory smiled and settled into a side chair. “Something like that, but we might let you keep the family jewels.” He nonchalantly crossed his legs and wondered if his ability to dissemble were successful. He continued talking to the developer. His mind was compartmentalized, able to perform almost automatically the business functions it had done so many times before, while the other side of him screamed that people with guns would shortly break down the door and shoot him before he had the opportunity to make any sort of explanation.

Twenty minutes later Cory and Sol were on the elevator, going down to the plaza for an early lunch. That portion of Cory’s mind that operated on reflex had carried on the conversation, and the developer, enchanted with the prospect of new mortgage money, hadn’t seemed to notice anything wrong.

Three uniformed police, two carrying shotguns and one with a clipboard, met them in the lobby as they stepped off the elevator.

“What’s going on?” Rabinowitz snapped.

“Identification, please.”

“I demand an explanation!”

The men carrying the shotguns seemed to relax for a second. “Someone took a shot at the President,” one said.

“Oh, my God!”

“Anyone hit?” Cory asked.

“One of our guys got one of them,” the second gun carrier said. “He was in a window across the way, and we nailed him. We had a tip that the other gun was in the Faber Building, but he was in here instead.”

“ID,” the cop with the clipboard snapped.

“Of course.” Rabinowitz handed a business card to the officer. “I’m president of the Arcadia Development Corporation, with offices on the twelfth floor. It’s on the building directory. Mr. Williams is an officer of the Nutmeg National Bank, and we’re involved in a business meeting and luncheon.”

The cop made notes and looked at Cory expectantly. “Sir?” His attitude had changed.

Cory flipped a business card from his breast pocket and gave it to the officer.

As the officer made another note on his clipboard, Cory felt his whole life was somehow emblazoned on that small engraved card that recently seemed to open so many doors.

They were waved through and out of the building.

Cory was halfway through a piece of rare London broil that he forced himself to eat, when he remembered what he had left behind in that small vacant office. The rifle, camera, attaché case, and tubular container all held his fingerprints.

CHAPTER 5

Lunch was interminable.

Cory’s awareness of the mass of fingerprints left in the vacant office crumbled his composure. His fingerprints were on file locally in Deerford because of his application for a pistol permit last year, and of course there were prints on file with the FBI from his military service.

An hour from now they would be swarming over his apartment and riffling through his desk at work.

“Are you all right?”

“What?” He looked up into Sol Rabinowitz’s concerned face. “Oh, sure. Just a little wool gathering.”

“About possible tenants for this deal …”

The developer’s rhapsodic plans for a proposed Connecticut shoreline shopping center escaped Cory. He could only hope that his face was frozen in a mask of interest.

As soon as lunch was over he would make contact with Norm Lewis. The best approach would be for Norm to lay out the story to a reputable attorney. The lawyer could phone the police and set the wheels in motion.

When lunch was finally over he cut the coffee conversation as short as possible and mumbled an excuse about getting back to the office. They left the restaurant together and turned in opposite directions.

Cory wondered how long it would take to make the fingerprint identification. It would be best not to risk retrieving his car in the underground garage. He would walk directly to Norm’s office.

The brokerage firm was moderately crowded when Cory entered. A cluster of lunch-hour investors hovered at the rear of the room, watching the movement of stock prices on the screen against the far wall. There were a dozen desks in the center floor, with half of the younger brokers on the phone, while others talked conspiratorially to men and women seated at their desks.

Lewis had an office at the side of the “bullpen,” with a glass front that allowed him to look over the main room toward the screen on the wall. He was on the telephone when Cory entered unannounced, and his eyes flicked up and then back to notes on his desk. He made a final remark into the receiver and jammed the phone back in its cradle. He arched his eyebrow toward Cory, standing in the doorway; his voice was a hoarse whisper. “Are you out of your mind? We can’t be seen together.”

“You know what they think I was doing?”

The voice still a whisper. “It’s all hit the fan. They even gave a report on the big-board tape. Spiked the market down two points.”

“I thought we’d call a lawyer friend of mine, Jerry Granville, and both go …”

“You killed a man.”

“I had to.”

“We’re in a mess, Cory, but I can’t talk now. Using an attorney as an intermediary is not a bad idea, but my law firm has more clout than Jerry. It’s going to take a couple of hours to set up. You go back to your apartment and come over to my house at …” he glanced at his watch, “five. I’ll have it worked out by then.”

“I can’t go to my apartment.”

“Why not?”

“My prints are all over that room.”

“Oh, Christ! Then go to a movie. Shack up with someone. Just stay off the streets until five.”

“Listen, Lewis, I want this matter straightened out now.”

“It’s got to be done my way. Understand?”

Their eyes met. Cory shrugged. “You don’t give me any alternative. Your place. After five.” He turned to leave.

“Did you get the photograph?”

“Sure. They’ve probably already been enlarged and passed out to every cop in the city.”

When Cory entered the Clock and Chime, Fred, the bartender, smiled. “Looks like you lost your cherry, Mr. W.”

Cory took an involuntary step backward. “What do you mean?”

“You came in. Your team won last night. I took out what you owed me from Monday, but you’re still ahead.”

The bills, surreptitiously slid across the bar, were palmed into Cory’s pocket. A laugh started deep within him and choked out in guttural coughs. “That’s funny,” he finally manage to blurt.

“You feelin’ OK?”

“Fine. Maybe my luck is turning. Give me a vodka martini.”

“You were due.” The bartender mixed a martini in a shaker in the exact mount needed to brim the cocktail glass. “You heard about the President?”

“Just vaguely. Not all the details.”

“Lots of action downtown, about eleven. Seems there were two guys up in some building with rifles, that tried to waste the President. The Secret Service shot one, but the other guy got away.”

“The Secret Service?”

“Blew the bastard out the window.” Fred turned away to take care of another customer.

The clear liquor shimmered in the glass before Cory. He didn’t want the drink. His nerve was slipping … he had to keep things under control until tonight, when he and Norm put the pieces back together.

Why had he fired? Why had he responded so automatically? The rawest army recruit quickly learned never to volunteer, and yet he had reflexively shot a man he thought was going to assassinate the President.

He sensed someone at his side and turned to see Ginny Shelton, the C and C’s waitress, rest her drink tray on the bar. She brushed a wisp of sandy blond hair from her forehead.

“Two daiquiris and a pink lady, Fred.”

The bartender mumbled obscenities under his breath that damned women drinkers and split checks.

“When are we going to make it, Ginny?” Cory automatically said the expected.

“When does hell freeze over, Mr. Williams?”

Cory laughed and watched as she piled the cocktails on her small tray and bustled off. With a little care she could be attractive, he thought. Give Ginny Shelton a decent hairdo, a designer dress with accessories, and she would be transformed. She had a good figure, but her hair was constantly astray, and her face seemed perpetually puckered in consternation, as if she didn’t quite understand life.

He knew she had jumped out of a bad marriage a few years ago, and although she joked with the customers in the lounge, she kept her personal life private, an indication of good taste, he thought.

She returned to the bar to pass money and a drink check to Fred. “I’m working half today,” she said. “Helen comes in at three. See you tomorrow.”

“Take it easy, Gin” The bartender gave an offhanded wave as she hung her apron on a small peg by the rear of the bar and left the lounge.

Cory had the feeling that they had assigned hundreds of cops and government agents to the shooting. Once they checked out his office and a few of his friends, they would be invading his known haunts. The surrender had to be on his terms to keep the momentum of his innocence alive.

He slapped a five-dollar bill on the counter and pushed off the stool.

“Just a quickie today, Mr. Williams?”

“Only came to collect my winnings, Fred. See you.” He hurried out the door into the bright sunlight and looked in both directions. He saw her half a block away, at the corner, waiting for the light to change, and he ran to catch up with her. “Care for company, Ginny?”

She gave him an oblique and surprised look. “Didn’t expect that from you, Mr. Williams. To answer your questions before they’re asked: my apartment rent is paid, my mother is not sick, and I’ve got money for groceries, thank you.” The traffic signal flickered to “walk” and she scurried across the street.

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

She wouldn’t look at him. “First, I’m going to the supermarket, and then home to clean up the joint.”

“I’m just tagging along.”

She halted in front of a Foodmart chain store and turned toward him in anger. “Listen, Cory. You’ve always been a decent guy and never tried anything but a little kidding. You may be attractive but you are a customer, and the two don’t mix. Besides, I’m in no mood for a matinee with some horny businessman.” She stepped through the automatic doors, grabbed a grocery cart, and pushed it rapidly down the vegetable aisle.

Cory followed after her and grabbed a bottle of blue-cheese dressing from a high shelf. “This stuff is pretty good. Ever try it?” He plunked it in her cart.

“You weren’t listening, Mr. Williams. You know, they got a massage parlor down on Blackman Street that’s got all sorts of girls.”

They walked in tandem down the grocery aisles. A very domestic scene, Cory thought wryly. “You’re reading me wrong, Gin.”

“Go home,” she said tiredly. “Or go back to Fred and lay your bets on horses, dogs, baseball, or whatever you’re betting on today.” She stopped at the meat counter to examine a tray of pork chops with complete concentration.

“That’s my problem. I can’t go home. I can’t go back to the office or to the Clock and Chime.”

She slowly turned, her head cocked in interest. “How come?”

“I’m into a very mean man a little too deep. Until I make contact with a friend of mine late this afternoon and get some money, I have to disappear.”

“The leg breakers?”

“That’s what they tell me.” He tried to smile. “I’m too young to have busted knee caps.”

“And you just want to come over to my place to have a beer and kill time?”

“That’s the size of it.”

She thought for a long moment. “All right, come on. Boy, I’m a sucker for a sad story, but you never did strike me as the weird type.”

Cory carried grocery bags and she the beer as they walked three short blocks to her apartment. She lived on the second floor of a modest garden-apartment-style building. Once inside, she closed the door, put the bags on a counter in the small pullman kitchen, and kicked off her shoes. “Be with you in a minute. Get us a beer.”

Cory flipped off the tops of two cans of Black Label and sat on a hard divan along one wall. There was a nostalgic quality to the room, an aura out of sync with the woman he knew as Ginny from the Clock and Chime. Along the far wall were European travel posters, a cheap stereo sat in a corner with a few dozen albums of folk music, and a bookcase made of boards over cement blocks contained dozens of paperback novels. He wondered what Ginny Shelton dreamed about.

In minutes she sat in the beanbag chair across the room and curled her feet. She had changed into a peasant blouse and shorts that displayed excellent legs.

“Why do you get involved in that junk, Cory?”

“What junk?”

“The gambling. I’ve watched you in the lounge for two years, and you mostly lose.”

“That’s my nature.” He tried to smile, but any fey quality left within him had departed earlier, when he held the rifle in his hands.

“You want something to eat?”

“No, thank you. I’ve had lunch.”

They finished their beers in silence. Occasionally, she looked over the rim of her beer can, appraising, measuring. “You aren’t very funny this afternoon.”

“I have problems.”

“Don’t we all.” She stood and extended her hand toward him. “What the hell. Some things are inevitable.” Her fingers laced into his. “Come on.” She led him to the bedroom. “You’re the first from the Clock and Chime. You know that?”

“Yes, Ginny. I know that.”

He waited until after seven to call Norm Lewis. He padded into the living room and sat in the straight chair by the phone. The bedroom door was open, and he could see her sprawled across the bed, the sheet pushed down to her waist, her back turned away in an attractive S curve of thigh and buttocks. He silently shut the bedroom door before he dialed Norm.

The phone was answered on the first ring. “Norm?”

“Is that you, Cory? Where in hell have you been?”

“Atlantic City, New Jersey.”

“Don’t fool around. All hell has broken loose.”

“Like what?”

“The Feds, the locals, the whole damn country is looking for you. It’s on the TV, and the paper put out an extra … ‘Local boy takes shot at President,’ all that sort of thing.”

“Did they find the camera? Was there anything in the news about the camera?”

“What camera?”

“Don’t play games, Norm.”

“Let’s not talk on the phone. Get over here fast.”

The warning bells rang … A quality to the man’s voice created a programmed falseness to the conversation. “Anyone with you, Norm?”

“Anyone who? Ruth’s here. I’ll keep her out of the way.”

“Anyone else?”

“No, but I’ll have my lawyers here once I know you’re; on the way. You’re going to need all the help you can get. I’ve got the money for you.”

“The camera. Tell me about the camera, now, over the phone.”

“I’m mixing a batch of martinis. They’ll be chilled by the time you get here.” The phone clicked dead.

“Something wrong?” She stood in the doorway, wrapped in a large terry-cloth towel.

“I don’t know,” he replied softly. He dialed for a taxi, and when asked for his address, gave one two blocks from Ginny’s apartment. When he hung up he looked across the room to see her silently watching him. “I have to see my friend about getting the money.”

She nodded noncommittally. “Sure.” She stood in a posture of half resignation, half hope. “If you were to come back later, we could have some steak and eggs.”

He kissed her on the forehead. “I’d like that. Let me see how long it takes to get things straightened out.” It was certainly going to take longer than an hour or two, he thought to himself as he lied to her. “I’ll call you from my friend’s place.”

“Sure.”

She didn’t believe it, and neither did he.

He had the cab leave him over four blocks from the Lewis house, in front of what appeared to be an unoccupied dwelling. He stood in the walkway, pretending to fumble for house keys as the cab turned the corner and disappeared from view. Twilight had turned to dusk, and tree-shaded sidewalks had mottled patterns of light splattered across their surface.

He had spent a third of his childhood in this neighborhood as the Williams family shuttled from the townhouse in Georgetown to the old colonial in West Deerford, which was sold after his mother’s death, and finally to the summer cottage at the shore. As a boy he had run these streets and nearby woods with Norm Lewis. He began to walk toward the Lewis home. It was a long, rambling house of stucco, with a Spanish motif throughout. A high wall to one side enclosed a swimming pool, cabanas and patio. There was a two-story solarium off the patio that had once been filled with freestanding tropical trees and exotic hanging plants. High double doors led from the solarium into the main wing of the house.

He knew, in a vague way, that Norm’s father had been involved in mysterious business dealings in South America, relationships that were never fully explained. The family had returned to West Deerford when Norm was eight, and his father had never worked again but spent the remaining years of his life cultivating the trees and plants in the solarium.

Distant warning bells still rang. Cory decided to approach the house from the rear, making his way through the trees that banked the swimming-pool wall. Turning left at the next corner, he began an even jog toward the woods that ran parallel to the street.

The underbrush in the woods behind the house had been partially cleared, and he was able to make his way silently toward the dark, looming wall around the pool. As his fingers brushed across the rough stucco, he found that he was unable to reach high enough to grasp the top. He jumped, his hands curling over the top of the rough stone, scrabbling to pull himself over the wall onto the red tiles of the enclosed cabana.

He was about to drop off the roof onto the patio when he saw them.

There were lights on in the solarium, and Norm, drink in hand, was talking to a large man who had a rifle slung over his shoulder. The man listened, nodded, and left the solarium through the large doors to the rear.

Another figure was revealed in the light from the solarium as he slowly walked across the patio. He also carried a rifle that casually rested over his forearm. The man in the patio was dressed in a Deerford police uniform.

Cory inched back across the roof on his stomach and dropped off the wall, back into the woods. He lay a moment near a large tree. His breath came in short gasps as he shivered.

There wasn’t anyone else to call, but he waited until he found an all-night drugstore nearly two miles from the staked-out house. She answered on the first ring.

“Is that you, Cory?”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes. It was on the news. After you left I turned on the TV, and there was a picture of you and …”

“Can I stay with you tonight? I can explain.”

“Explain?” A distant question. It seemed an appraisal of a thousand poor actions she had taken in her life. Her pause was long. “Where are you? I’ll come after you.”

He described a spot three blocks from the drugstore, where a small river abutted the road and where he could hide in the underbrush with a clear field of retreat. “Warren and Main. Can you be here in fifteen minutes?”

Again the pause. “Yes.”

CHAPTER 6

His clammy palms left a film of perspiration on the phone receiver.

“I don’t know what I can do for you except to arrange a negotiated surrender.” The attorney’s voice was pontifical.

“That’s what I want you to do, Jerry.”

“Why in hell did you do it?”

Cory sighed. “It’s not how it appears.”

“Then you’re innocent?” A hopeful question.

“You’re damn right! I never had any intention of firing at the President. It was all part of a bet. A game and a bet.”

“You’re going to have to lay that on me heavy. Not on the phone. Let me make a couple of calls and call you back.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

“You sound paranoid. I’m not in the habit of turning in my clients without their knowledge.”

“I want to surrender, but under the right terms. What’s the procedure?”

“As soon as I’m off the line with you, I’ll call an S.A. at the local FBI office. The case falls under their jurisdiction. We’ll make arrangements for you to surrender at their office.”

“Then what?”

“They do the usual: read your rights to you, photograph and prints, and then the interview. If they feel they have probable cause, which I think they have at this point, they arrange for your arraignment before a federal magistrate.”

“Oh, God!”

“And then I begin my legal maneuvers. Give me an hour, and then I want to have a long talk with you regarding the exact circumstances, before we surrender.”

“I’ll call in an hour.”

He hung up and felt the dull sheen of depression engulfing him. The attorney’s resolute voice and attitude were a slim thread of hope, but at least the two of them would be taking some constructive action.

“The morning paper’s on the counter,” Ginny said from the stove, where she was frying bacon.

He sat at the counter before a cooling cup of coffee and flipped open the paper. His own photograph stared up at him. He began to read the long article and felt her standing beside him with a plate of bacon and eggs.

“Doesn’t do you justice,” she said of the picture.

“Wait until you read the article.”

She squinted at the newsprint. “Are you really a discontent, a minor banking official heavily in debt because of gambling losses?”

Cory groaned. “There goes my job.” The smell of eggs near his face nauseated him, and he pushed the plate far down the counter.

“You don’t like my eggs?”

“It’s not that. I don’t think I could eat anything this morning, even if it were prepared by a chef from the Cordon Bleu.” He turned the newspaper to the second page, where the lengthy article continued. There had been no identification of the man he had shot. The article listed him as a fellow accomplice, but no fingerprints were on file, nor did he have any identification on his body. A nationwide distribution of the dead man’s picture had been made in order to aid in his eventual identification.

Cory wadded the paper and threw it toward the trash can in the corner. It missed.

Ginny sat across from him and began to work ravenously on the eggs. “When you told me what really happened, I believed you.”

“And you don’t now?”

“I do. But you know—” she paused to finish a mouthful of egg, “I can’t figure out why. I’m a sucker for anything a guy I care about tells me. Why did you buddy call the cops on you last night?”

“Panic. Fear. Perhaps reasons I don’t know about. Lewis is a strange man.”

“It is going to be all right, isn’t it, Cory?”

“It will take time to get straightened out, but I have witnesses to the bet Norm Lewis made with me, and then there’s the camera attached to the rifle. All of that will support my side of the story. It’s the aggravation. I really could do without having my life history plastered over page one of every newspaper in the country.”

“When everyone finds out the truth, you’ll be a hero. I mean, if you hadn’t shot the other man, he might have killed the President.”

“The newspapers think some cop got him.”

“They don’t know who?”

“By the end of today ten guys will claim they fired at that window.”

“That would be lying.”

“Ginny, Ginny, for a cocktail waitress who’s seen everything, your naïveté is utterly boundless.” He stood up and felt the stubble on his chin. “You wouldn’t happen to have a razor around, would you?”

Cory called Jerry Granville back in exactly one hour. The lawyer’s voice sounded more somber than it had earlier.

“What’s up?” he asked without identifying himself.

“It’s all arranged. Get down to my office right away. Do you have transportation? They found your car in the garage.”

“I’ll work it out. What did they say?”

“Not over the phone. You and I talk, and then we surrender. I’ll be with you every step of the way. You have to trust me in this, Cory.”

“I know. I’ll be there.”

Cory turned down Ginny’s offer to drive him and walked five blocks until he found an outdoor phone booth, where he dialed for a cab.

Jerry Granville’s office was in a small red-brick building on a mixed residential and commercial street that ran parallel to the street containing the courthouse. Cory had the driver let him off at the corner and walked to the office.

Granville must have been waiting by the window of his first-floor office. He met Cory at the door, grasped his arm, and quickly ushered him into a private office.

The attorney was a huge man of mammoth proportions layered in consecutive rolls of fatty tissue that merged together to give him a spherically rotund appearance. Cory initially had doubts about the man’s intellect, prejudiced by the excessive obesity. He soon discovered that under layers of flesh, buried within the folds, resided a mind of lightning intellect. They had first met and worked together when Jerry’s client, a builder, was closing a loan with the Nutmeg Bank. The attorney also represented civil-rights activists and the few remaining state Indians. He was a good choice for the problem at hand.

The lawyer’s face was dark as he trundled across the office and lowered himself into an outsize swivel chair. He propped a microphone in the center of the desk and switched on a recorder.

“I want it from the top and I want it straight. You’re in a passel of trouble, Cory. Or need I tell you that?”

“I saw the newspaper this morning. There’s one initial problem, Jerry. About a retainer …”

The corpulent attorney laughed. “Hell, there’s enough publicity in this to satisfy a Belli. We’ll work something out, sell your story rights to someone, some damn thing. Now, what in hell happened?”

Since their phone calls, Cory had been mentally rehearsing the story. He tried to align his facts, structure them cogently, and present them in a straightforward manner. He started with the rainy afternoon at the hunt club, where the wager began.

Jerry Granville shook his head when Cory finished. “Do you want me to comment on the intelligence of your actions?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. You couldn’t possibly add anything I haven’t already said to myself. What I want is legal advice. How do I get out of this mess so I can put my life back together?”

The attorney nodded. “It’s not going to be as easy as you think. After we finish here, I’ll drive you over to the Federal Building. The FBI expects us at three. I will remain with you during all interview sessions and give advice as to certain of your answers. We won’t allow any news people to talk to you until we prepare a statement tomorrow. After they lock you up, I’ll start hitting the courts with a batch of writs.”

“You mean I’ll be in jail?”

“My God! Where did you think this would lead? We’ll be lucky to have you out next week. It all depends on how long it takes me to get corroboration in the statements from—” he looked down at his notes, “from Joe Page and Ed Robinson.”

“What about the camera mounted on my rifle? That proves what I was really doing.”

There was another one of those strange pauses that Cory had become so fearful of. “There wasn’t any camera. Or if there was, it has been removed.”

“Oh, Jesus! Then we’ll get statements from Lewis, Page, and Robinson.”

“I don’t think anything Lewis says is going to help you.”

Cory thought about the measured phone call he had had with Lewis and the lies that culminated in the stakeout of the Spanish home. “Lewis must have panicked when he heard all the publicity. That would explain why he called the cops.”

Granville looked at his notes again. “For the second time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Who tipped off the police that a man with a rifle was in the Faber Building?”

“I don’t know.”

“There seem to be a lot of things you don’t know. The FBI told me Lewis has already given a sworn deposition that after the shooting you came by his office and demanded money. Why would Lewis lie?” It was a slashing attack.

“I don’t know that either.”

“It will be my job to find out. In the meanwhile, if the other two men back up your wager story, you’ll be in the clear. Page and Robinson are respected men in the community, and you aren’t exactly a Lee Oswald.”

“You wouldn’t know that from the newspaper this morning.”

“Such are the wages of notoriety. Are you sure you’ve told me everything?”

“Positive.”

“Then we’ll go over it a second time. There might be one small item that you left out.”

They began again. Cory included everything that happened, from the lovemaking with Ruth Lewis to a complete recapitulation of his activities after the shooting; but again, cautious instinct and a desire to protect her made him leave out any reference to Ginny.

When he had finished, Jerry looked even more thoughtful. “Explaining why you zeroed in that rifle when you didn’t intend to use it is going to be hard to explain.”

“There really isn’t any good explanation. Maybe I was looking for something to do until Thursday arrived.”

“And you never knew the man that you shot?”

“Never. I’ve told you that.”

“You met him casually?”

“How many times …”

“We have to be absolutely sure. We don’t want to make categorical statements and then get shot down.”

“I saw him with the rifle. He was leading the President, and it was obvious that he was going to fire. He couldn’t have missed.”

“This is an important area. They’re going to do their damnedest to make a connection between you. You claim you had never seen him before, and yet he was in a window across the street. How are you so damn sure!”

“I had a telescopic camera lens.”

“If he was preparing to fire, wouldn’t the rifle be at his shoulder? Wouldn’t his elbow protrude in such a manner as to hide part of his features?”

“Well, yes, but I’m almost sure I had never seen him.”

“Almost isn’t good enough.” Jerry Granville leaned back in the chair to the creaking protest of the inner mechanism. He laced his hands behind his head for a few moments and seemed to be minutely examining the ceiling. “How can you be almost sure?”

“They had the guy’s picture in the paper this morning.”

“Very good—” He looked up in surprise.

Two large men erupted into the room. They were big men, their sports coats stretched tight across bulging shoulders as they moved in concert in an enveloping movement that placed them on either side of Cory’s chair.

Granville, in a lithe movement surprising for his bulk, was on his feet, angrily leaning over the desk. “What in hell!”

“Pierce, FBI.” The man to Cory’s right quickly flashed an identification with one hand while the other tightly gripped Cory’s shoulder. “We’re taking the prisoner in, Counselor.”

“Listen, whatever your name is. I talked with Special Agent Atkins and made arrangements for this surrender.”

“Atkins will be waiting for you at the Federal Building. In the meanwhile, we’re taking custody.”

Both men’s hands grabbed Cory’s shoulders, and he was dragged to his feet and shoved toward the door.

“Stop!” The vehemence of the attorney’s command made both men pause. Jerry Granville’s features changed, and his eyes seemed to have recessed into a face that now sparkled with anger. “Let me see that ID again.”

Without answering, the men kept Cory moving toward the door.

“I said stop!” There was no mistaking the authority in Granville’s voice. “You will not remove my client from these premises without my permission. I am making a phone call.” He began to dial.

The man called Pierce snatched the phone from Jerry’s fingers and slammed it into the cradle. “That won’t be necessary.”

Jerry’s eyes narrowed further. “I know you. I’ve seen you in court. You’re not FBI … city police. Sergeant Pierce. You work for Wilton James.”

With the larger Sergeant Pierce at Granville’s desk, Cory made his move. He slammed his shoulder into the second man who sprawled across a leather divan against the wall. He ran from the office, wrenched open the front door, and leaped the few stone steps leading down to the pavement. It was wrong. It was all wrong. He didn’t know how or why, only that he must escape.

“Halt!”

In five strides Cory was in full run. The police patrol car parked halfway down the block was astraddle the street. Two uniformed patrolmen, carrying shotguns and wearing flak vests, were crouched behind the vehicle. He swerved away, his new path allowing him to see the front steps of Jerry’s office from the corner of his eye. The two large men who had broken into the office were now on the front stoop. Both had drawn handguns, and one knelt with his arm braced on the wrought-iron bannister, while the other stood and braced his right wrist with his left. They aimed at Cory.

Jerry Granville’s bulk broke from the office door and plummeted against both men, sending them sprawling down the steps. Pierce’s gun fired; the shot went wild.

Other firing began, and Cory realized that sharpshooters were stationed on the rooftop across the street.

Jerry was now in the center of the street with his hands held forward in a gesture of supplication. His face exploded, and he jerked backward into the gutter.

A dozen weapons fired at once. Cory saw more shots rip into Jerry’s body, jouncing the huge man in a dance of death.

A voice. “Cease fire! Cease fire, goddamn it!”

Firing seemed to increase as a kill craze swept the police.

Cory fell, rolled over, and stumbled to his feet in a low crouch. Splutters of concrete blew away from the curbing as he ran.

There was an open drainage ditch for pipe repair to his front, with a sawhorse blocking the way. He threw himself against the horse and fell into the pit, with crackling rifle fire still whining around him.

Jesus God! They had killed Jerry. They were going to kill him.

They were going to kill him!

CHAPTER 7

The firing had stopped. He knew they were standing on the rim of the ditch, directly over his head. Their voices seemed to be directed down the slope of the dirt wall to reverberate into the cement drainage pipe he had crawled inside.

“I’d like to roll a frag grenade in there and let it go off against his balls.”

“Who fired that first shot?”

“One of the trigger-happy uniforms.”

“The other one dead?”

“Stiff as he’ll ever be.”

“Who’s going down after the fucker?”

“Maybe he’s dead.”

“I saw the yellow bastard jump in there.”

“Rawlings, you and Pierce go in and pull him out.”

“He might be carrying.”

“Hand me your piece.”

Cory pulled his arms over his head and jackknifed his legs into fetal position as the AR-15 on full automatic raked the dirt behind the pipe. He heard the whine of ricochets as they bounded against the cement edge of the drainage tube.

The commanding voice again. “You want to come outta there, or do I give a burst along the pipe?”

He would have to scrabble backward out of the pipe, jerk himself erect, and face a dozen guns.

“You got five seconds to come out.”

Cory felt a cramp in his midsection as he inched slowly out of the pipe. The warm sun, now directly overhead, struck his eyes painfully as he stood.

There were a dozen, and they stood around the edge of the ditch with handguns and rifles pointed directly at him. Some wore flak vests, some were in uniform, while others wore sport clothes with detective badges hanging from pockets.

He raised his hands over his head.

“Give me your hand.” The voice of command again, and Cory looked into the face of an older man in a sport jacket, the only one of the surrounding group who was weaponless.

Cory reached toward the man’s grasping hand and felt himself jerked up the side of the pit and out onto the pavement. Hands pushed him against the side of a car and other hands frisked him. His arms were pulled painfully behind his back and cuffed.

They were covering Jerry with a rubber sheet. The heavy attorney’s stomach rounded toward the sky like a minor mountain.

Cory was pushed into the rear of a patrol car. His head bumped against the wire mesh that separated the back seat from the driver. He sprawled across the seat and felt his feet shoved in as the door slammed.

The man in the jacket, who had pulled him from the hole, sat next to him and helped him to sit erect.

“You all right?”

“You killed Jerry.”

“Some hothead opened fire and the men thought World War III had started. There will be a formal inquiry.” The man next to Cory settled back in the seat and extracted a pipe from his pocket. He carefully tapped tobacco into the bowl and lit it with a lighter that spewed a three-inch stick of flame. The smoke was a cloyingly sweetish aromatic mixture. He puffed and looked at Cory. “I’m James. Wilton James.”

Cory didn’t take the extended hand. “You killed Jerry.”

“You said that, Mr. Williams.”

“Well, goddamn it! You just shot an attorney.”

“I did not shoot anyone. Mr. Granville was unfortunately caught in the cross fire when you attempted escape.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“As I said. There will be an inquiry.”

“And what happens to me now?”

“We’ll have a chat at my office.”

“You’re FBI?”

“I am paid by the taxpayers of the City of Deerford.”

“This is a federal case.”

“Proper jurisdiction will be determined at a later time.”

“How did you know where I was?”

“There were only two names of lawyers in your address book at your apartment. Mr. Granville was the second.”

“There’s an explanation for what happened to me in that building.”

“I’m sure there is, Mr. Williams. There always is.”

The man from Toledo was angry, and that was an unusual state of mind for him. He found it necessary to redial the Connecticut exchange a second time, and that was even more unusual.

“Hello? Hello! Who’s there?” The person he reached knew who was calling and was disturbed that nothing had been said.

The man in Toledo breathed deeply before switching on the scrambler. “Rook here. I am not pleased.”

“The whole thing got botched. We’re working our way through it.”

“I should hope so. If it were arranged for pawn to go the distance, much pressure would be relieved.”

“That can be arranged.”

“I expect it.” He severed the connection.

At police headquarters Cory was shoved, pummeled, and half carried down a hallway into a freight elevator and finally pushed through a door labeled “Wilton James—Chief Investigator.”

His companion from the patrol car took his place behind the desk. Wilton James was a tweedy man. His sport coat had leather patches on the sleeves, and the mutton-chop sideburns gave him a professorial look.

Cory was slammed into a straight chair before the desk. His cuffed hands bit against the rear slats, and he winced. “Can I have my hands free?”

“But of course. Pierce, do the honors.”

Sergeant Pierce, who looked like he should be playing linebacker for the Jets, stood, arms akimbo, at the door. At the command, he stepped forward and removed the handcuffs. He remained standing in the rear of the room as Cory pulled his arms forward to massage sore wrists.

“Since you have slaughtered my attorney,” Cory said bitterly, “I demand new representation.”

James’ voice was quiet and deceptively calm. “This morning the newspapers were asking questions, such as where was police security, and is Deerford another Dallas? This type of slander disturbs us, Mr. Williams.”

“I demand an attorney.”

“You are not in a position to demand anything. I could point out, as you have, that your lawyer is dead.”

“Then I wish to make a phone call to my brother, in Boston. He’s an attorney and will arrange for local counsel for me.”

“Your brother has already been contacted and is in the building.”

“I want to see him.”

“In due time, Mr. Williams. May I call you Cory?” Another leisurely puff of pipe smoke.

“You can call me any goddamn thing you want. I demand—”

The blow to the rear of Cory’s head made him sprawl him across the floor until he hit the wall. Pierce moved toward him, grabbed a handful of shirtfront, and dragged him to his feet before slamming him back against the wall. He tried to raise his arms and duck his head, but the motion was easily brushed aside as the man’s forearm smashed against his nose.

Blood spurted down his shirtfront.

The sergeant’s fist plunged into his abdomen. Cory clutched his stomach, slid to his knees, and felt another blow across the rear of his neck. His head seemed to explode into concentric rings of darkness, and he slid forward into unconsciousness.

He awoke with a start and snorted as he moved his head away from the small ampule held under his nose. He was held upright in the straight chair. The bleeding from his nose had stopped, although the front of his shirt was covered with blood.

“We’re ready for your statement, Mr. Williams. We would like to start with your identification of the other gentleman involved in the assassination attempt.”

“Don’t know.”

The bulky sergeant stepped toward him, but a nonchalant wave by James caused the detective to retreat back against the wall.

“I repeat. The man who died in the building across the way. We still do not know who he is. His name, please?”

“I never saw him before in my life.”

“He was there for a cross fire. You both carried nearly identical weapons; both of you were in windows on the sixth and seventh floors. Surely those are coincidences that boggle the imagination. I am sure you do not expect us to believe that two men, at the same spot, under nearly the same circumstances, were by chance both attempting to shoot the President?”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Enlighten us.”

The room seemed to edge out of focus a moment as Cory slumped forward. Instantly, arms were around his shoulders, pulling his upright.

“We’re waiting.”

He refused to speak.

A numbing paralysis. Strong fingers pinched the rear of his neck. The black rings returned, their circumferences gradually tightening. The fingers were released, and as the black rings turned to red, the room swam back into focus.

“Speak.”

“I’m soiled. I have blood all over me. I’d like a shower and change of clothes.”

“I ask again.” The pipe had gone out, and Wilton James slowly lit it without his eyes leaving Cory’s. “I’m emphatic on this.”

“What do you want me to tell you?”

“Everything.”

Cory had been over the story with Jerry only an hour before, but he began again. “Saturday, last Saturday, I was at the Hunt Club with …”

“What club? Where?”

He began to talk. For the third time that day Cory told of the rainy afternoon, the conversation between the men, and the wager. He continued recounting the events, including everything except any reference to Ginny.

He was interrupted. “You left the bar, the … Name?”

“The Clock and Chime, sir,” Pierce added. “I know the joint.”

“And you went where?”

“I was in near shock. I wandered around. Stopped into a couple more bars. I don’t even remember their names. I went to a movie and don’t remember the name of the picture. Then I called Lewis and went over there.”

“To borrow money?”

“To get verification of my story and arrange to surrender.”

“We were at the Lewis home that night. Somehow, I don’t recall seeing you.”

Cory explained.

“And where did you spend the night?”

“In a vacant house. I think it was on Woodlawn Street.”

“And the following morning you called your attorney, Jerry Granville?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” Wilton James took a pointed device from his pocket and began methodically to clean his pipe. The room was silent. “The men present at the club when you made this so-called bet … what were their names again?”

“You know about Norm Lewis, but there was also Joe Page and Eddy Robinson.”

“Identify them further.”

“Both Page and Robinson are prominent men. Page is a CPA with his own accounting firm in Deerford. Page and Clinton, I believe. He lives on Chester Street. I forget the number. It’s a white colonial, third from the corner. Ed Robinson is a vice-president of the Connecticut Insurance Company. He lives on—”

“2345 Wilchester. We know.”

“You made contact?”

“It’s all very convenient.”

“What does that mean?”

“You read the paper this morning.”

“Only the article dealing with me and what happened.”

“Not about the fire at the Hunt Club.”

A few times in his life Cory had received statements that so shocked, and so startled, that the realization of their impact caused a physical reaction as if he had been struck. His father’s censure, immediately followed by the call from the girl, that he had died, the letter from the Department of the Army refusing to extend his service … and now the statement he knew was going to issue from the calm police inspector’s pipe-curled mouth. “What fire?”

“The one that killed Robinson.”

“I think I should hear what happened.”

“That clubhouse was a firetrap. If it had been located within the city limits we would have closed it down years ago. Robinson evidently had a little hanky-panky lined up out there and was in the sack when it started. The volunteers managed to control it, but most of the second story was burned out, killing them both.”

“Both?”

“Robinson and the girl. We haven’t identified her yet. It would seem as if your story is to be verified by a dead man.”

“What about Page?”

“We’ll check into him.”

“Lewis started it all. He’s the one who attached the camera.”

James shook his head. “You’re asking us to believe that you went into a high-rise building carrying a rifle with a camera attached? And live ammunition? And accidentally saw another gunman whom you proceeded to shoot?”

“That’s what happened.”

“Mr. Williams, we found no camera.”

Cory leaned over the desk and smashed down on its surface with his fist. “What are you people trying to do to me?”

Wilton James arched his brow, and again the arms of Sergeant Pierce were around Cory, and he was thrown back against the wall. The man’s florid face was inches away; the breath smelled heavily of garlic.

“Listen, crud. We know what sort of fuck-up you are. You’re a loser! We got a file on you already. Your record stinks! Kicked out of the army, a gambler deep into the books! You shit, and yet your dad was one of the greatest congressmen this district ever had!”

“Leave my prisoner alone!”

A tall man with sandy brown hair, wearing a dark business suit, stood angrily in the doorway. “You damn idiots! You want to blow the whole case before we’ve even started?”

“Resisting arrest and attempted escape,” was Pierce’s laconic reply.

“Why wasn’t he brought to the Federal Building?”

“We were arranging safe transport,” James replied evenly.

“I’ll bet. In what? A trundle?”

Cory struggled to his feet and tried to focus his eyes on the man in the doorway.

“Take your prisoner away, Mr. Atkins,” Wilton James said.

“I wish we could fry the creep,” were the last words Cory heard from Sergeant Pierce as the FBI agent escorted him from the room.

A montage:

He was hustled through corridors and down an elevator, into the lobby of police headquarters. The room was filled with newsmen and television cameras. Bright lights, popping flashes, a thousand screaming questions.

“Why’d you do it, Cory?”

“What are your politics, Mr. Williams?”

“Who was the other guy?”

“A statement for ABC? What’s the blood on your front?”

A woman: well coiffured, expensive suit, tight smile mixed with sexuality and ambition. “Have you ever been married? Do you have a girl friend?”

An agent on each arm.

“A statement …”

“I want a lawyer.” His voice was an unfamiliar screech.

Pushed into the street and an automobile. A five-block ride to the Federal Building, another elevator, exiting into a normal-appearing business office.

Photographed and fingerprinted by a tight-lipped agent with emotionless dull, flat eyes. Another office, men seated along the divan, a secretary sitting in a corner before a transcription machine, waiting expectantly. Atkins behind the desk, someone by Cory’s shoulder, reading his rights as he numbly nods understanding.

“Would you like something to eat, Mr. Williams?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Would you like to tell us anything? It might help all of us.”

In addition to the transcriber, a tape recorder had been set up on Atkins’s desk. Cory saw the slow turn of the spindles. He had a strong sense of déjà vu and remembered the device on Jerry’s desk—it seemed a hundred hours ago.

“All of it?” Cory asked.

Men nodded, and he started again.

The door had been locked minutes before, and up the corridor a guard sat on a stool with a copy of Playboy. It was a small cell, clean, with neatly folded blankets across the bunk.

Cory sat on the edge of the bunk and leaned forward with his head in his hands. His right leg began to quiver and shake in a spastic-like tremor. He placed both palms on the offending knee and felt the contractions flow up through his arms. As if his brain synapses had been forged into one obsessive trail, one thought circled constantly. “This can’t be happening to me. Not to me. This can’t be.”

He knew without doubt that not only was he enmeshed in a circuitous plan he did not understand, but also that his role had been carefully orchestrated. There was a plan behind all of this. This was not some haphazard scheme of the gods that had accidentally selected him as its tragic victim.

Had they meant for him to kill the assassin?

He doubted it. Who were they? Or was he giving some paranoid delusions corporeal body?

He had to think, to put it together in some rational manner.

The club’s beating against the cell door bars startled him, and his body jerked forward in a convulsive motion. Christ, his nerves were shot!

“You got visitors, Williams.”

He looked at the faceless uniformed guard. “What?”

Again the staccato beat of club against steel. “Come on.” The door swung open, and he shuffled into the corridor.

The defense attorney’s conference room was a small affair with one barred window, a marred and scratched table, and several straight chairs. Two jar caps overflowing with cigarette butts were the only items on the table.

His brother, Steven, stood at the window with a cigarette clenched in his fingers. He was a gaunt man, resembling their mother in habit and looks. Until Cory had last tried to borrow money, the brothers’ relationship had been cordial but distant, growing apart as years and circumstances dictated. Steven was a partner in a conservative Boston law firm and had adopted the mores of that milieu.

Cory gave a short wave to the other man, who was seated at the table. Henry Rockwell was a senior partner in a large local firm that had done a great deal of legal work for the Nutmeg Bank.

“I thought you gave up smoking, Steve?”

His brother stamped out the half-smoked cigarette on the floor. “I have. Jesus, Cory, what’s happening?”

“It’s all a mistake.”

“I know, I know.”

The brothers stood at opposite ends of the room, each at the end of the separating table. It was a short table, but the distance was measured in years.

“We don’t have much time.” This from Henry

“How about getting me out of here?”

“That’s a little more difficult than it might seem. There will be a formal arraignment tomorrow before a federal magistrate, and bail will be set. Then … well, I have to get your side of the story.”

Cory sat across the table from Henry Rockwell and began again.…

“And that’s it?”

“All of it.”

“That’s the goddamnedest story I ever heard!” His brother ground out another cigarette.

“You don’t believe me?”

“It’s dumb enough to be true. No one, but no one but you could have gotten into such a mess.”

“I think there’s a conspiracy here,” Cory said.

“Lewis doesn’t back up your story.”

“I know, and that, combined with the death of Robinson …”

“I know Norm Lewis well,” his brother said. “He’s a responsible, conservative individual who wouldn’t get involved in any conspiracy. If by remote chance he did, why involve you?”

“It didn’t have to be me; I was merely convenient. I was the goat. The goat that would allow the real gunman to get away.”

Henry Rockwell placed his pen neatly along the top edge of his legal pad and removed his reading glasses. “What is your theory?”

“I don’t think that it is a particularly difficult thing to shoot a President. As long as the men who hold that office persist in riding in motorcades in open limousines and continue speaking at large open meetings … anyone with a rifle or pistol who’s willing to sacrifice his own life or risk capture can do it.”

“Where does that fit?”

“I was their diversion. They wanted me in that window with a rifle. Before hell broke loose, a bunch of cops rushed into the Faber Building, next door to where I was. That’s where Lewis thought I would be. Don’t you see? When the shots were fired, the Secret Service would not immediately be able to tell the true trajectory … and I would be the fall guy.”

“If you hadn’t shot the other man your rifle would not have been fired.”

“By the time tests were run, the real gunman would have been in another state or out of the country.”

“You were their insurance?”

“Why else would Lewis lie and Robinson be dead?”

“That’s a fairly elaborate scheme, when all they had to do was hire some hit man.”

“Hire who? Someone to kill the President, with the almost certain knowledge he would be caught?”

“It’s still complicated.”

“The stakes are high.”

Henry Rockwell shook his head sadly. “It all may be, Cory, but we must have corroboration.”

“Lewis must tell the truth.”

“He’s been consistent. He says that you came to him with a demand for money in order to leave the country.”

“That’s a lie!”

“We have to get something more than that.”

“Joe Page! I know he will confirm everything that happened at the club. Simple enough, we get a statement from Joe.”

His older brother leaned across the table. His hands were folded into fists that were nearly white from the pressure of his grip. “Joe Page is missing. Do you understand? No one can find him.”

CHAPTER 8

Cory Williams stood at his cell window and looked out through the heavy mesh toward the industrial section of the city. A haze hung over the area, composed of an inverted air mass containing car exhaust, industrial waste, and other pollutants. It was a depressing sight, hardly better than the graffiti-covered walls of the cell.

“Your brother brought you some clothes, Williams.” A jailor opened the cell door and threw a garment bag on the bunk.

“Thanks.”

“Court’s at ten. You better snap to.”

He made a careful toilet, using the electric razor and washing in the tepid water issuing from the small sink. He dressed slowly, methodically, as if extreme care might improve his appearance.

They came for him at nine-thirty, carrying chains. There were four of them. One stood in the cell doorway, slamming a billy club into his open palm while the others stalked him across the cell.

“There’s no need for those,” Cory said and gestured toward the handcuffs and leg irons.

“We don’t want nothing to happen to you, Cory boy.”

He was unceremoniously pushed against the wall while they cuffed his hands. One knelt by his feet, and he felt the snap of leg irons, and then a chain belt was locked around his waist, through which the handcuffs were laced with a short chain.

“This is ridiculous!”

“You better believe it.”

“Come on, buddy boy.”

They led him through jail corridors, into a freight elevator, and down into the basement. They took him through a tunnel laced with a labyrinth of ceiling pipes so low that they had to duck to make passage.

The jail abutted both the municipal and federal courts, and Cory was taken to a holding cell. The manacles and cuffs were not removed.

It was eleven before they escorted him to the courtroom. His brother sat with Henry Rockwell at the defense counsel table, and both attorneys stood when he approached.

The three men walked toward the bench.

Later, when he was taken to the defense attorney’s room, the short court appearance was a hazy remembrance, as if viewed through a veil of time.

He had pled not guilty and stood stunned as bail was set at five hundred thousand dollars.

“Of course I’ll move for an immediate reduction in bail,” Henry said.

They had taken the identical places in the small room that each had occupied on the previous day: Steve by the window, chain-smoking; Henry at the table, with his laden brief case; and Cory pacing.

“Have you guys talked to the FBI?” Cory asked.

“Of course.”

“There’s got to be verification of my story somewhere.”

“Lewis is still standing pat on his statement.”

“What about ballistics? I shot twice at the man in the far window. A comparison of the slugs to the rifling in my weapon should match.”

“They have verified that your rifle was fired, but contend you took two shots at the President and missed.”

“I couldn’t have missed at that range. What about the slugs in the other guy?”

“Mashed nearly flat. There’s no way to prove they came from your rifle.”

“You know, Cory,” his brother said, “in Massachusetts we have a mandatory prison sentence for anyone carrying a concealed weapon. The reason for the law is that guns are used for killing people. They are designed and devised and carried to harm other men.”

“For God’s sake, Steve. I don’t need moral platitudes.”

“I’ve never understood your fascination with weapons. You never seemed to like to hunt game that much.”

“I shoot well. Does that explain?”

His brother shrugged. “Why did you carry live ammunition?” The remark was an allegation.

“I’m not quite sure. It wasn’t really a conscious decision.”

“And you put a bullet in the chamber.”

“Yes.”

“Did it occur to you that you really wanted to kill the President?”

“No, of course not.”

“No one can represent you without the truth.”

“What does that mean?”

“If there was any president in recent years that you hated, it was the man in your sights that day.”

“I’m not even political.”

“The same man, the same bastard that you almost shot, made his initial reputation at our expense. He got a reputation as Mr. Clean in the U.S. Congress by railroading Dad.”

“That was never a consideration.”

“He killed our father!”

“That’s not the way it was. I was at those hearings. You were overseas in the Navy, Steve.”

“He crucified Dad.”

The picture of his father dead in the young woman’s apartment was vivid to Cory. He had never mentioned it, either to his mother or older brother, and now that secrecy would aid in his own destruction.

Henry looked surprised and brushed the end of his nose tiredly. “You know, Cory, maybe you should consider another law firm to represent you. You need a man who specializes in this type of criminal law. Someone like Kunstler, Belli, or F. Lee Bailey.”

As a boy Cory had once lain for hours on a small creek bank on the outskirts of Deerford and watched a spring freshet erode the soil until an overhang swayed and fell into the rushing water. Enough pressure at a constant rate could do that with the quality of faith also. He knew, as strongly as if they had shouted their disbelief, that his brother and his attorney were beginning the march of disenchantment.

“What I mean,” Henry continued, “men who handle criminal work on a constant basis are better equipped than we are. I’m more at home at a real-estate closing, and your brother’s a municipal-bond man.”

“I’ll think about it,” Cory said

CHAPTER 9

When they took Cory to the visitors’ gallery, he expected Steve at the far side of the glass.

But Ginny was sitting there, on the edge of her seat. Her hands twitched nervously in front of her. She smiled when he sat down.

Cory slowly took the telephone receiver from its bracket at the edge of the glass, and she mirrored his movements. “Hello, Ginny.”

“I thought maybe you’d want something. I didn’t know exactly what, so I brought you some things to read. I didn’t really know what you like, so I brought a little bit of everything.” She was nervous, her speech fast. “I gave the shopping bag to a guard at the door. He said you’d get them later. I guess they have to check for files and stuff.”

“That’s fine, hon. You shouldn’t have come.”

“I wanted to.” Her voice now soft and forlorn. “I’ve heard a lot of things about you. I want you to know that I don’t believe them.”

He laughed. “You’re the only one.”

“When will they let you out?”

“According to latest estimates, in about twenty years.”

Her eyes widened. “You have to have a trial.”

“Of course, but it looks bleak. You look like a gamine. Did I ever tell you that?”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, someone who’s a little demure, a little fey.”

“I’m not fey. I’m wincing from all the pinches I’ve gotten on my bottom, at the Clock and Chime.”

“Listen, Gin. Every time I go over my story, I’ve always left you out. There’s no sense in your getting involved.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“Please do what I say. I’m not exactly sure what’s going on, but it’s pretty complicated. I don’t think you should come here again. I don’t want you to write or contact me in any manner.”

She looked hurt. “You don’t want to see me?”

“It’s not that. I don’t want anything to happen to you. Promise me that for the time being you won’t visit or write. I’ll contact you when things settle down. When it’s safe.”

“I think I love you, Cory.”

“Oh, God, Gin. Please promise.”

“I promise.”

She left, and he was very alone.

Later that day, back in his cell, they brought him the shopping bag of paperback novels she had purchased. They were, as she had said, an assorted lot: two science fictions, two murder mysteries, a western, a satire, and a thick book entitled, Voyager—A towering saga of men and women larger than life.

The assortment had cost her a good deal of tip money.

Cory awoke during the night, unsure of the time. A diffused light fell through the door bars and made a yellow swatch across the cement floor.

Good thoughts seldom occur during the predawn. He knew with clarity that all legal avenues would be explored, appeals would be filed, and yet he was going to spend the prime of his adulthood in a federal penitentiary.

There was only one alternative—he had to escape.

He somehow knew it was a dream but was compelled to continue acting his orchestrated role. The place was a bar and cocktail lounge with a distorted resemblance to the Clock and Chime. The other participants hunched over bar stools in front of a faceless man mixing drinks.

They were all there: Norm Lewis, Eddy, Joe, and Jerry Granville, whose heavy haunches overlapped the small stool. Cory wanted to sit down, but there was no room. He tried to wedge between them, but they elbowed him away with sufficient force to make him stumble and fall.

Ginny Shelton helped him to his feet. He smiled into her gaminelike face. She returned the smile until a nude Ruth. Lewis walked between them. Her breasts were pointed and flushed as she touched him seductively.

He was torn between a wish to make love to both women and a compulsive desire to find a place at the bar.

The face of the man mixing drinks dissolved. The features wavered and flowed together until they were hauntingly familiar. He knew the man but felt the frustration of imperfect memory as he tried to place a name with the vaguely familiar face.

It was the man in the newspaper photograph. It was the man he had killed in the building across the way.

The men at the bar turned to face him. Their features were twisted and distorted with hate. The bartender slipped under the service counter and walked toward him. Hamlike fists were raised and ready to deliver anvil-smashing blows. Cory retreated until his back was against the wall.

The two women gestured to him provocatively. The man came closer with raised fists.…

He awoke in a cold sweat.

The nightmare instantly dissolved but left inchoate fear in its wake. He left the narrow bunk to walk across the dark cell and stare out the window. Outside was a dark and forboding wasteland.

He recalled a phrase of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s: “In the real dark night of the soul it is always three o’clock in the morning.”

Questions chased sleep. Eddy Robinson had been killed—burned to death during a hidden tryst. Joe Page was missing. It all made quixotic sense.

He knew he was caught in a convoluted conspiracy and that Norm Lews was intimately involved. If that were the case, it would be imperative for Norm to dispose of the other witnesses to the wager.

He turned away from the window. He leaned forward as if that physical act would improve his hearing.

Something was wrong.

Prior to his commission in the army, he had lived with dozens of men in long barracks. There had always, in the deepest night, been an undercurrent of sound. Tonight there were no snores, no incoherent mumbles of unhappy men, ho protesting bunk springs. It was much too quiet.

There was a nearly inaudible click from the corridor door.

Cory crossed to the cell door and clenched the cool metal bars. If he turned his head far to the side, he could see the dim shapes of men in stocking feet moving down the hall.

They were coming toward his cell.

He retreated across the enclosure until his back pressed against the corner of the far wall. It was a scene reminiscent of the nightmare that had awakened him.

They were now at the cell door. They didn’t speak, although he could hear their heavy breathing. A key was inserted in the door lock. The door creaked as it swung open.

“Where the fuck is he?”

“In the corner. Over there.”

They came toward him, and then the blows started.

Cory fell to the floor. He pulled up his legs and braced his arms over his head. The blows were delivered with short lengths of hose. They rained across his buttocks, kidneys, and legs.

“No marks,” one of the men grunted. “Stay away from the head.”

The blows continued and were made doubly menacing by the silent, angerless manner in which they were delivered. They didn’t speak but continued the careful and methodical beating. There was a fourth man in the corridor outside the cell. The light was too dim for Cory to make him out clearly, but the glow of a pipe, intermittently flared in the shadows.

A blow to the solar plexus knocked the wind from him, and then another kick to the midsection, and he lost consciousness.

He awoke on the floor, with his face turned sideways in a puddle of his own vomit. The door clanked open, and he turned to see a jailor standing outside the cell with a metal breakfast tray.

“You wanna eat before, or after, you clean up that mess?”

“Who were they?” he managed to mumble.

“Who you talking about?” The jailor put the tray on the bunk.

“The men who visited me last night.”

The jailor shrugged. “I come on at seven.”

“It’s not your job, huh?”

“That’s about it, buddy. You got half an hour to eat and get ready before we swab this place down.”

Cory sat on the edge of the bunk with the tray beside him. The scrambled eggs were hard and lukewarm. He held the metal mug of tepid coffee between both hands. His body ached. His back, sides, and abdomen were pulsating with throbs of pain. The beating had been a job performed by experts.

His legs trembled as he walked across the cell to stand before the metal mirror over the sink. His face was unmarked. The eyes were bloodshot, and there were deep lines of fatigue and a stubble of beard, but no outward evidence of the beating. He stripped off his shirt. Although it seemed as if every muscle in his body hurt, he was unmarked. He turned on hot water in the sink and began to wash himself as well as he could.

He had fallen asleep on the bunk, when a club clanked between the door bars.

“Get up, buddy boy. Time for morning chores.”

Cory stumbled out of the cell, into the corridor. A bucket of soapy water squatted near a mop. “I’m supposed to mop the floor?”

The guard grinned. “It’s the maid’s day off.”

Cory groaned in pain. He bent forward to wring out the mop.

The tier that held his cell consisted of twelve barred doors separated from the rest of the prison by a heavy door at the end of the corridor. As he suspected, the other eleven cells were empty. “You don’t seem to have much business,” he said over his shoulder to the jailor, who leaned against the wall and watched him through half-closed eyes.

“This is the presidential suite. We got it reserved for special visitors like you.” He laughed at his own humor.

The guard insisted that Cory mop not only the corridor, but also the unused cells. It was a slow and painful process, fought by his aching body and by his lack of sleep. He shook himself to stay awake and began to examine the layout of the wing closely.

The building was a concrete structure. Massive walls enclosed the exterior of the building and separated the cell block he occupied from the floor above and below. The dividing walls between the cells were thick metal. The bars on the cell doors were of forged and tempered steel.

Heavy mesh covered the narrow rectangular windows. When he looked outside in the daylight, he saw that the floor was the third. If they continued manacling and chaining him each time he was taken from the tier, escape was going to be difficult if not impossible.

The door that led from his tier to the remainder of the prison could not be opened from the inside. An armed guard, in a booth a dozen feet down the exterior hall, opened and closed the exiting door on request. Even if he overpowered the jailor in the cell block, Cory would still have to pass through the door and past the guard outside. There probably were more locked doors and more guard posts beyond what he could see.

There must be a way. There had to be a way. Throughout history men had escaped from impregnable fortresses. There was even a documented case of a Devil’s Island escape.

His situation was doubly difficult since they watched him so carefully. Segregated from the rest of the jail’s population, he was denied certain advantages given the average accused felon.

The guard sauntered toward him. “You finished yet, Williams?”

“Just about.”

“Then wash your mop out and you got exercise time.”

That was a glimmer of hope. He would be put in the yard with the general population. He finished mopping with renewed vigor and called to the guard. “I’m ready.”

“For what?”

“I want my exercise.”

“So?”

“Where do we go?”

“We go nowhere. Put the mop away and walk along the hall. Jog, do push-ups, or go back in your cell I don’t give a damn.”

“I don’t leave?”

“You don’t go nowhere without more guards. And you ain’t goin’ nowhere nohow, except to court or to see your attorney.”

“I need a shower.”

“You got one—Sunday.” The guard pointed his club toward a narrow door at the end of the hall, near the door. “The mop goes in there. Make sure you wash it out in the sink.”

Cory pushed the mop bucket along the floor with the mop handle and opened the supply closet. There was a deep sink against the far wall of the room, with shelves along the side walls. The shelves contained blankets, pillows, detergents, and other miscellaneous cleaning supplies. He emptied the bucket, rinsed the mophead, and stored the equipment neatly to the side.

He found himself automatically straightening a pile of blankets on a middle shelf. Man is a very adaptable creature, he realized. He had reverted almost instantaneously to his early days in the army. He had accepted without qualm or decision the edict to mop, and other jail discipline. The middleclass, it seems, is constantly prepared to follow orders.

He finished in the supply closet and started back to his cell. The guard leaned against the door, reading a magazine. He gave Cory a brief glance. It hurt to walk. The added exertion of the mopping had not helped. His muscles had cramped further from the previous night’s beating.

He slipped back in his cell and flopped down on the bunk. He closed his eyes. A few hours’ sleep would pass the long day.

“Outta there, Williams.”

Cory glanced up at the guard standing in the door. “Huh?”

“You heard me. Off there. No sack time during the day.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“That’s your problem, old buddy. Get off the bunk! You can sit on the stool in your cell or walk the corridor for your exercise. We will not assume the supine position.”

“Suppose I tell you to go to hell?”

“Then we put you in a cell where there ain’t no bunk. No bunk now and no bunk tonight. And it’s dark. Very dark.”

Opposite the sink was a narrow shelf bolted to the wall, where Cory had piled the paperback novels. A low, three-legged stool was shoved under the shelf. He staggered from the bunk and pulled out the stool. He sat down and bracketed his head with his hands.

Why had they come to beat him?

He had heard that in certain police jurisdictions, if you took a swing or a shot at a police officer, you were heavily “subdued” during the arrest process. It was a self-protective device used by uniformed men who faced possible death or mayhem during each shift of duty. But the men who beat him near dawn had seemed nonjudgmental and without anger. Their attack was performed in a cold efficient manner. It seemed too calculated to be a retaliation. It had been done for another reason.

He turned on the stool and looked into the mirror. He looked god-awful. His eyes were bloodshot and rheumy, while his beard marched sloppily across his chin. He looked as if he had just come off a three-day bat.

That’s what they wanted. They wanted him to appear in this condition. They wanted him to speak with his defense attorneys and make court appearances in a walking, exhausted state, looking like a derelict.

It was calculated terrorism directed toward his own destruction and the protection of the conspiracy.

They came at midnight.

He had prepared. The extra army blanket, the pillow, and his meagre supply of books were stuffed under the blanket on the bunk. It was a haphazard heap, and only in the dimmest of light would it appear to be his sleeping form.

He stood in the far corner and clutched the legs of the stool.

They came as they had the night before. They stalked silently down the corridor in stocking feet and gently slipped the key in the lock of his cell door. They did not speak.

The door opened, and they entered the confined space.

Cory stepped out of the corner and slammed his foot down on the nearest man’s instep. He swung the stool at the head of the second man.

“Son of a bitching Christ!” The man with the broken instep fell sideways across the bunk. He pulled his leg up and fumbled at the broken arch. The stool bounced off the shoulder of the second man. He uttered a low unintelligible oath and stumbled backward into the corridor.

Cory aimed a kick at the third man’s groin. His ankle was grasped, and he was shoved back against the wall.

“You want to play, huh, mother-fucker?” The third man came toward him.

“No marks,” was the low command from the man with the pipe who stood in the shadows of the corridor.

CHAPTER 10

They removed the leg irons and manacles just outside the defense attorney’s room. Cory rubbed his wrists and then doubled over in agony as a shooting slash of pain crossed his back. It was a residue of the night before.

“You all right, Williams?” The question was professional, not solicitous.

“Yeah.”

They opened the door, and he stepped inside the small room that was becoming so familiar. His brother stood at his usual place by the window. A cigarette dangled from his lips. Steven coughed and turned to give Cory a halfhearted wave.

Henry Rockwell was seated at the small table. His briefcase was thinner this morning. Seated immediately across from Henry was another man, unfamiliar to Cory.

The new member of the defense triumvirate was thin, intense, and had dark features and hair. His clothing was casual: an ill-fitting sports coat, wrinkled shirt, and a tie pulled down to the third button. He looked at Cory with interest.

“You look like hell,” Steven Williams said as he ground out his cigarette.

“I feel worse.”

“You’ve got to pull yourself together.”

“Not necessarily,” the new member of the group added.

“This is Issac Lowenstrein, Cory,” Henry Rockwell said. “We have discussed your case in depth at a senior partners’ meeting. It is our conclusion that we need co-counsel on this matter. We need someone with more expertise in criminal matters.

Lowenstrein stood and stuck out his hand toward Cory. “Glad to meet you, Williams. Your case interests me.”

“They’re working me over,” Cory said.

“Working what over?” his brother asked.

“Me.”

“Take off your shirt,” Lowenstrein snapped. The attorney’s eyes flashed. “If they’re leaning on you, I want to see. Take off your shirt. I’ll get a photographer in here in five minutes, and we’ll slap them with a faceful of injunctions.”

“What happened?” Steven Williams asked.

Cory told them as he removed his shirt.

“Not a damn mark,” Issac Lowenstrein said after he had examined Cory carefully.

Cory rebuttoned his shirt. “That’s what I expected.”

Rockwell and Steven glanced sideways at each other as Lowenstrein made a note on his legal pad. “I’ll make some inquiries. I have some friends on the force who can find out. It probably won’t happen again.”

“I think it will,” Cory said. “I think it’s part of their plan to discredit me.”

“Well, be that as it will,” Henry Rockwell said. “Mr. Lowenstrein has come up with a possible line of defense. Want to sketch it out for him, Issac?”

“I’ve already made some initial overtures to the federal attorney’s office and played you up, Cory. Your service record, your position at the bank … you aren’t exactly the usual run-of-the-mill crackpot.”

“Thanks.”

“I didn’t mean that like it sounds.”

“There are still people in this town who remember Dad,” Steven said.

“I don’t doubt it,” Cory replied. “So do I.” He wondered how much of his irony was caught by his brother.

“Let me proceed,” Lowenstrein said. “I think we can get your bail lowered.”

“That would help. To say the least, I’d like to get out of here. How much will it be?”

“They’ve just about assured me that they won’t protest a motion to lower it to 250,000 dollars.”

Cory sat tiredly down on a straight chair. “It may as well be ten million.”

His brother coughed and lit another cigarette. “I can put it up,” he said in a low voice.

“You don’t have that kind of money,” Cory said.

“I’ve arranged for one of our junior associates to run a title search on my house. The mortgage is down to twenty-two thousand dollars, and you know how real-estate values have appreciated. I’m also ordering a fresh appraisal, which I believe will come in at over a hundred and seventy five.”

“I appreciate that, Steven, but it’s still a long way from a quarter of a million.”

“I can raise another thirty in cash, and the firm is standing for the balance.”

“Your law firm would do that?”

Steven coughed and smiled wryly. “I would like to think it is their faith in me as a partner, and that is what they would like me to think. I am afraid they really want this matter over and closed as quickly as possible. They have reviewed Lowenstrein’s defense and approve. It will get this thing out of the limelight, maybe forever.”

Cory was puzzled. “I don’t understand. Besides the conspiracy, what’s my defense?”

“We can’t corroborate that,” Lowenstrein said. “So when you’re precluded from one line of defense, you obviously take another.”

“Such as?”

“Diminished capacity.”

“Insanity?”

“Not quite. Let me outline our moves. Step one is the reduction of bail, then the posting of the lower amount and your release. Approve so far?”

“I’d be a fool not to.”

“Okay. We have you on the street, right? Now, our next step is to have you met at the jail door by an ambulance.”

“I didn’t have much time on the street, did I?”

“Listen to him, damn it!” his brother snapped. “He’s put a lot of time and effort into working this out.”

“Sorry. I’m listening.”

“Okay,” Lowenstrein continued. “We take you by ambulance, under doctor’s care, of course, to the Oakcrest Psychiatric Center. You will be admitted and immediately placed under ‘constant observation.’ A couple of sessions of shock therapy and some psychotherapy, and we begin to build a fat file on you. Now, we then—”

“Wait a minute! You’re getting me out of one jail and into another.”

“Oakcrest is a goddamn country club,” Lowenstrein said. “For Christ’s sake, they have swimming pools, tennis courts; you name it, and they’ve got it.”

“It’s still a nuthouse.”

“Of course it is. That’s why we use it.”

“Let him finish, Cory.”

“All right. We place you under doctor’s care. We then have enough psychiatric testimony to help establish diminished capacity.”

“And if I’m not nuts?”

“Who says you have to be nuts? Diminished capacity doesn’t mean that you see or hear strange voices. It doesn’t mean that your car radio told you to kill the President. All that it means is that due to extreme stress over the past several years, your judgment became grossly impaired. You were not yourself, in other words. If we build the case right, we might get you off with accelerated rehabilitation, which means no time served. Six months in Oakcrest and you walk out free, without another day in jail.”

“What’s been my stress? I think I should know.”

“Three things.” Lowenstrein looked at his notes. “Viet Nam, for one. Everyone knows those guys are screwed up for years.”

“I was never in combat.”

“Who the hell knows that? Hell, I’ll make sure that Judge Duffy sits on the case.”

“Why Duffy?”

“He landed at Normandy on D-Day in World War II. He thinks everyone in Viet Nam waded in rice paddies, with mines blowing up in their face.”

“Viet Nam is a long time ago,” Cory said. “Anything else?”

“Sure. Excessive drinking. I’ve already got a bartender from the Clock and Chime who will testify to that. Then we parade Vito to the stand if we have to.”

“Vito?”

“Your bookie.” Lowenstrein paced the floor as if addressing a jury. His hands moved in sharp chopping motions as he outlined the case for the defense. “Vito will testify that you were in to him very deep. You were driven, shall we say, crazy with worry.”

“I don’t think Vito will lift a hand to help,” Cory said. “Unless he wants me out so that I can pay him back.”

“Vito owes me,” Lowenstrein said. “He’s my client. I’ll get him immunity before I put him on the stand. Hell, he was busted last Christmas Eve on an extortion charge. I had to move heaven and hell to get him home to Momma without spending the night in the slammer. Vito will testify about your gambling losses.”

“How long will all this take?”

“For the bail? Couple of days—a week at most.”

“Then I get my transfer to the squirrel farm, and after a few months I’m free.”

“Right.”

“And forever known as the man who took a shot at the President.” He leaned across the table, with his palms against its surface. “And what about those guys who really were going to kill the President?”

There was another of their pregnant legal pauses until Rockwell finally spoke. “There is no way in this world that we can corroborate any of your story.”

“Then I don’t want out of here. At least not your way.”

“What?” His brother looked at him incredulously.

“I will not let you lose your house and mortgage your future on my behalf.”

“I don’t lose the house,” his brother said. “I only put it up as a property bond. It doesn’t even cost me anything. The firm will put up securities as collateral. There won’t be but thirty thousand dollars in actual money posted. When the case is over we get everything back.”

“If I took off?”

“That would be …” His brother looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“If I left that place, that private psychiatric oasis?”

“Oakcrest?”

“If I escaped from there?”

“That wouldn’t be difficult,” Lowenstrein said. “There aren’t any armed guards and barbed wire, you know.”

“I don’t want the bail. Come up with another defense.”

Cory left the room. The guards, waiting outside the door, attached the leg irons and snapped-on the manacles.

“That guy really is nuts,” he heard Lowenstrein say to his brother, inside the defense attorney’s room. “I mean, he’s around the bend.”

The guards escorted him back to his cell. When they arrived, Cory discovered that the three-legged stool, his weapon of the night before, was gone.

He had to arch his neck to see out the small window of his cell. His fingers gripped the narrow mesh. He wanted out. He wanted away from this place. His brother had offered him freedom. Months of incarceration in a mental hospital would be the extracted price, but the milieu would be far different than jail. Even submitting to electric shock would be far simpler than enduring the nightly visits from his brutal tormentors.

He knew that if he took his brother’s offer of bail he would leave the mental hospital. He couldn’t bring himself to place his brother’s family in financial jeopardy and imperil Steve’s position with his firm. Steve was already compromised in the Boston legal fraternity by the mere blood relationship between them.

“Oh, God,” he muttered aloud.

“What’s the matter in there, Williams?”

Cory turned to see that the day guard had opened the cell door. “What now?”

“You got exercise time.”

Cory painfully limped into the corridor. He began to pace the forty-step length of the corridor. The guard leaned against the outside door, watching him. Cory saw that the cell’s stool was at the far end of the hall. He bent and lifted it by holding one leg. “This is mine.”

“Nothing’s yours.”

“It’s mine.”

“You’re a prisoner. You got no rights.”

“This stool came out of my cell.”

“The word has come down that you get no stool.”

“From Atkins, or James?” The guard didn’t answer and looked away. “Or is Sergeant Pierce doing the dirty work?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. If you’re smart, you won’t either. I’ll give the word to you, Cory boy. You give us trouble and you end up in the hole. Down there you get no exercise, no shower, nothing. I have the feeling that certain parties would be glad to take care of you that way. Read me?”

“I think so.”

“Then put the stool down.”

Cory realized that he held the stool at eye level. He could bring it down on the guard’s head, knock him out, and put on his uniform. The fit would be poor but adequate. He could signal the guard outside the door, keep his face turned sideways, and hope that the uniform itself was sufficient to get him through the locked door.

The guard in the booth outside the door controlled not only this door, but the next. Then there was a similar post farther down the hall.

“You got any ideas about that stool, Williams, forget it.”

Cory put the stool down on the floor. He saw that the guard had tensed; planted his feet squarely on the floor, and held his billy club across his waist, clenched firmly in both hands. “I just need something to sit on, that’s all.”

“Sit on your ass.”

Cory walked away. “Sure.”

“You were thinking of hitting me with the stool, weren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“Won’t help you any. Even if you was to get outta here, you’d never get through the next corridor. Do us both a favor and forget that kind of crap. Now back in the cell.”

“I’m going.” Cory slowly walked into the cell and kept his back to the door. He heard the barred door clank shut behind him and then the retreating steps of the guard walking down the corridor.

He picked up one of the paperback novels Ginny had sent and lay down on the bunk to read. Concentration was impossible. He couldn’t help but think of Steven’s offer. The prospect of freedom, even in the limited sense of the hospital, was appealing. He was sealed in this jail and would remain under constant heavy guard and manacled when taken from his solitary wing. The outcome of the trial seemed a forgone conclusion. There seemed to be no way he could establish his innocence without corroboration from someone.

It was an endless circle. If Steven put up the bail and then Cory took off, he would have royally screwed his own brother.

There had to be another way. He tried to concentrate on what he knew about the jail.

“Wake up, Williams.”

Cory stirred on the bunk. The open book resting on his chest fell to the floor. He turned. The guard stood at the door, next to Detective Wilton James. “What is it?”

“The man wants to have words.”

“What do you want, James?”

“I wanted to see if your memory had improved.” The detective took a pipe from his jacket pocket and tamped tobacco into the bowl. The guard handed him a stool, and he sat down, lit his pipe with a flaring lighter, and observed Cory through rings of aromatic smoke.

“You were here the other night,” Cory said. “You were in the corridor while your boys did a number on me.”

“I have no boys.”

“Sergeant Pierce is one.”

“Pierce, ah, yes. Unfortunately, the good sergeant broke his instep while coaching some little-league ball. He is on sick leave.”

“Too bad.”

“However, none of them is irreplaceable. Do you have any changes to your story?”

“See my lawyer.”

“Oh, but I have. I suppose they’ve told you they’re considering a defense based on diminished capacity?”

Cory didn’t answer. His eyes met the impassive gaze of Wilton James. He wondered what this man’s place was in the web of circumstances that held him. “Why?” he finally asked.

“Why what?”

“Your further interest. Your jurisdiction in this case is over.”

“Call if loose ends, if you will. The department doesn’t care for muddied water.”

“My original version bothers you, then?”

“I wouldn’t use so strong a word as bothers. Let’s just say that we don’t care for even the slightest accusation, crazy and wild as it may be.”

“Which accounts for my nightly visits.”

“I wouldn’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m beginning to follow you.”

“We carry a certain weight with the federal prosecutor. Your defense attorney’s approach seemed valid to us. We are certainly willing to make an unofficial report to the prosecutor that we would hold no objections to a little plea bargaining.”

“And I get to sleep if I cooperate?”

“Your nightmares are beyond my province, Williams.” He slid from the stool. “I have always found that a clear conscience makes for uneventful sleep.”

Cory’s fingers curled over the bars. “Why? Just tell me why, James?”

Their eyes met again, and the detective imperceptibly shrugged. “You have my advice. I don’t think I need say more.”

James walked slowly down the hall to the door and signaled to be let out.

They didn’t come for him that night, but he was unable to sleep in the anticipation of their visit. Once or twice he dozed off, only to jerk awake in fear. He sat in the dark until streaks of dawn simmered through the high window at the end of the cell.

He forced himself to eat lukewarm dried eggs and munch cold toast. He felt a deep lethargy seep through his body. The lack of sleep, beatings, and poor food were beginning to take their toll. Let a few more days go by, and he would not be able to take any physical action on his own behalf.

When the door clanked open for the early morning ritual of cleaning and exercise, Cory shuffled into the corridor and looked at the guard with bleary eyes.

“If you looked any better, you’d have a lily planted on your chest.”

“Thanks.” He shuffled up the corridor to the cleaning supply closet and turned on the hot water in the sink. He leaned against the wall and let the mop dangle in the water. A deep malaise was permeating not only his physical, but his mental, faculties.

The guard sat a dozen feet away, near the corridor door, thumbing through a magazine. He hadn’t changed, the small closet hadn’t changed … nothing had changed.

He kicked at the small door below the sink. The gesture of frustration did nothing but numb his toe and crack the paint-spattered door open. He knelt to close the door and looked under the sink.

The pipe for the drain made an elbow-joint turn, and exited into the wall to the right side of the small enclosure. Several spattered paint cans were piled on the other side. The back of the space, against the dividing wall, was covered with a small mesh grid.

He knelt and leaned farther into the small closet. His hands scrabbled and pried at one corner of the mesh grid. The rusty screws holding the mesh in place wouldn’t budge. He searched the room frantically for something that would fit into a screwhead.

The voice of the bored guard called down the corridor. “You getting your jollies in there, Williams?”

“Be right out. The mop’s filthy as hell.”

“Hurry it up.”

It was obvious from the guard’s unconcerned voice that the man was far down the corridor, immersed in his magazine. Cory knew he had only minutes until the man’s curiosity was piqued and he left his seat to walk to the supply closet. He continued his search. There didn’t seem to be anything available that would fit into the screw.

The paint cans. He found a quart can in the back of the space and pried at its paint-sealed lid with his fingers until it finally came off. He inserted the edge of the lid into the screwhead.

It turned.

He worked with the screw until it was out of the wood frame far enough to be turned with his fingers.

It fell free, and he was able to pry the mesh away from the wall on that side.

He crawled as far back into the space under the sink as he could. He looked behind the mesh and saw that the opening led into a vent between the walls. There wasn’t time to explore further, and he pushed the mesh back against the wall and reinserted the screw. He turned it finger-tight and then closed the cabinet door. He shook the mop, slung it into the pail, and went back into the hall to begin the daily cleaning.

“They said you wanted to see me.” She sat on the other side of the glass divider and smiled at him.

“Thanks for coming, Ginny,” he said.

“Did you like the books I sent?”

“They’re fine. Just fine.”

The fingers on her right hand splayed across the glass between them. He knew what she wanted and he did it. He placed his fingers on the glass over her hand. He smiled at her. He was using her, but for the moment she was the only one he could trust.

“I miss you,” she said.

“I miss you too, Gin. I need you to do something for me.”

“Something more to read?”

“It’s a little more than that. Would you mind?”

“A file in a cake.” She laughed with a lilting, tinkling sound.

“In a way.”

She turned somber. “I’ll do what I can for you, Cory.”

“I need the floor plans of this building.” His voice dropped as his words crackled with a deeply felt intensity.

“How in the world would I get something like that?”

“They built this place three or four years ago. Even though it’s a state-owned facility, they would still file plans with the Deerford building department.

“That would be in the municipal building.”

“Right. Now, most of the records are public. Anyone has access to them.”

She laughed again, but her voice had a different quality as it communicated the same urgency he felt. “Aren’t they going to wonder a little when a cocktail waitress waltzes in and asks to see the floor plans for the local lockup?”

“You don’t tell them you want to see these plans. Get access to the files and say you’re from my old employer, the bank. Tell them you work for Dan Hawkins, a vice-president. Eventually, they’ll leave you alone or go on a coffee break, and you get the file and make some drawings. Put the drawings on the thinnest paper you can find, in the smallest scale you can draw.”

“How do I get them to you?”

“In a book, Ginny. Insert them into the binding of a hardcover book.”

CHAPTER 11

They came again that night. He had finally fallen asleep and didn’t awaken until the cell door was open and they were upon him.

He was helpless as one man held his legs, another his arms, while the third silently and efficiently beat him. It was over in five minutes, and they left him on the cool floor of the cell. His cheek pressed against the cold hardness of the concrete floor, and he tasted a thin trickle of blood as it seeped from the corner of his mouth

“Who’s beating you?”

Atkins, of the FBI, sat at a narrow table and doodled on a legal pad. The room was similar to, although smaller than, the usual one where he met his brother and the attorneys. This room contained a broad mirror along the wall facing Cory. It was a very obvious one-way mirror. He could easily imagine the dull glow of the ever-present pipe in the mouth of the man standing on the far side.

“Well, who is it?” Atkins repeated laconically. “Who are these strange apparitions that you claim visit you in the middle of the night, beat you unmercifully, and depart without leaving a sign?”

“You don’t believe me either?” They had arranged the interview with Atkins within thirty minutes of his request.

“You’ve got to give me more to go on. You know, Williams, that’s your whole problem. You never seem to have any corroboration for the wildest accusations.”

Cory leaned forward, forgetful for the moment of the handcuffs and leg irons the guards had neglected to remove. “You don’t believe a goddamn thing I’ve ever said to you.”

“You expect me to answer that?”

“I’ll tell you again. They come at night. They come at anywhere from eleven P.M. to three A.M. They don’t come every night; that’s what makes it so damn nerve-wracking.”

Atkins scribbled on his pad. “When they told me you wanted to see me, I thought it was about the case.”

“This is about the case. It’s all tied together.”

“Uh huh. You got anything else to say?”

“I guess not.”

Atkins’s shoulders hunched forward as he swiveled the legal pad in a half circle. His index finger silently tapped the words he had written. His eyes met Cory’s and then turned downward as if motioning toward the pad.

Cory read the words the agent had hastily scrawled. “Believe you. See what can do.”

The beatings stopped. He knew that after two nights of uninterrupted sleep. He wasn’t sure how Atkins did it. Perhaps it was only a word of innuendo to Wilton James. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that the beatings stopped and he could begin to recuperate.

He used the time to gather strength and to try to get his frazzled nerves back into some semblance of order. Each morning, during the so-called exercise-work period, he worked on the wire mesh under the grill in the supply room. After the third day, he was able to pry the grill completely away from the wall and peer into the shaft. It was a possible way out … if not from the prison, at least from this wing. The short shaftway led into an unconnected heating vent which gave access to a space between the walls. It had to lead somewhere.

He kept careful note of the schedule. They had taken his watch with his other personal possessions, but by judicious questions to the guard on duty, he was able to piece together the daily schedule:

7:00 A.M.—Breakfast. Thirty minutes to eat, shave (with a locked safety razor which he had to return), and clean his cell.

7:30 A.M.—Clean-up time in the corridor. This was his access time to the small supply closet where he slowly rinsed the mop each morning and stole a precious three minutes to explore further the passageway between the walls.

8:00 to 9:00 A.M.—Exercise time. He jogged up and down the hall.

From nine until they turned the lights off at ten that night, the day stretched barrenly ahead. He could nap now. With the cessation of the beatings, they didn’t seem to care how much time he spent on his bunk. He read through the long hours.

He kept in good physical shape as well as he could. Jogging in the corridor during the exercise time was followed by half an hour of violent calisthenics. He had to keep his muscles in tone, and the exercise helped to exhaust him and pass the time.

The book was delivered at lunchtime on the fourth day. The guard tossed it through the bars. Cory carefully picked it up and looked at the guard. “So?”

“A girl brought it by this morning.”

“Thanks.”

Cory slowly opened the volume. It was a hardcover copy of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese. He held the book in his hand a few moments. Had she picked the title purposely, or was it selected for the ease of slitting through the rear binding … or both?

He waited until the guard’s footsteps retreated to the far end of the corridor before he examined the binding. There was nothing visible. He held the covers apart and shook the book. Still nothing. She had done her job well. He began to work at the binding.

He removed several pieces of thin onion skin paper from the interior of the book binding. He turned-his back to the cell door and arranged them in proper sequence on the bunk.

On the corner of the lower-right-hand sheet was a tiny inscription: “I love you.”

The drawings were excellent. She had reduced the scale and must have purchased a set of drawing pens. The minute detail would have been impossible otherwise.

He located the tier he occupied on the third floor of the northeast corner of the building. The duct he had discovered underneath the sink led up to an unfinished fourth floor. The planners had anticipated the addition of more cells on the top floor. The empty space awaited dividing walls for the installation of additional cells. If he were able to make it up the duct, if the space were wide enough once he was inside the walls, he might be able to lever himself up to that vacant floor.

Then what?

He traced his finger along the outline of the building’s layout. The fourth floor was empty space except for the outside walls, a few support walls, and a service module. The flooring would be unfinished, which might allow him further access down to the third floor in another location.

A plan began to evolve. It would be risky. Timing would be all-important, and there were many intangibles, but for the moment it seemed his only alternative.

He carefully shredded the flimsy paper and flushed it down the toilet.

“Court day, Williams!” The cell door clanked open, and the guard reached inside to hang a garment bag from an upper bar. “You hear me, buddy boy? You got court at ten.”

“What about cleaning up?”

“Later. What the hell you worried about? You got lots of time.” The guard broke into raucous laughter as he walked away. “All the time in the world.”

Cory began to dress carefully. The attempt to escape would have to be made today. The clothing he was now putting on was an important increment. Any escape, no matter how successful, with him wearing a denim shirt with “Deerford County Jail” stenciled on the back was hardly an auspicious beginning.

He was waiting for them when they entered the cell with leg irons, waist belt, and handcuffs. He stood stiffly in the center of the small space as they bent to snap manacles tightly over his wrists. He began to walk, clanking, down the aisle, flanked by a guard on either side.

The court appearance was a mockery. He stood mute as Lowenstrein made a motion for an extensive psychiatric examination.

“Does the defendant have anything to say on this matter?” the judge asked.

“He does not, Your Honor,” was the criminal lawyer’s immediate response.

And he was right, Cory realized as the motion was granted and he was led from the courtroom, down the hall to the defense attorney’s room.

Steven stood at his usual spot by the window and turned as Cory entered. “The examination is in your own self-interest.”

“I know.”

“I have to go back to Boston, Cory. I’ve spent too much time away from the firm as it is.”

“I understand.”

“You’re in good hands with Lowenstrein.”

“I know.”

“My offer still stands. I’ll raise bail the instant you give the word.”

“Thanks, Steve. But let’s see where this new avenue takes us.”

His brother shrugged, and their time together was over. There was a certain sadness in Cory as he was led back to his tier. His pompous, overbearing, and officious brother had, in the clutch, come through.

When they entered his corridor he stopped in the center of the tier. “I want my exercise time,” he said.

“You’ve just had it, fruitcake.”

“I get my time in the corridor and my time to mop,” Cory insisted.

His usual guard shrugged. “Give it to him. He ain’t going anywhere.”

They took off the leg irons and handcuffs in the center of the aisle and left him standing unencumbered in the middle of the tier. He shrugged off his suit jacket and threw it on the bunk in his cell. The door snapped shut behind the escort guards, and he was alone in the tier except for the single day guard.

He started to the supply closet.

“Where you going?”

“To get the mop.”

“Do it tomorrow.”

“I need the exercise.”

“Obsessive bastard, aren’t you?”

“Comes from the military.”

Once inside the closet he bent under the sink and ripped the loosely attached mesh from the wall. He closed the sink door and filled the mop bucket with warm water and detergent.

It was time.

The routine had been well established. Cory always started mopping the corridor and cells nearest the exit door. The guard sat on a stool ten feet from the door. He propped one elbow into a cell door and leaned back against the wall. Every fifteen minutes he would leave his stool and walk to the door to wave at the man in the guard booth down the outside hall. Cory would have to make his move immediately after such a signal. That would give him a maximum of fifteen minutes before detection.

He mopped four cells and a third of the corridor and went back inside the supply room. He filled the bucket nearly to the brim. It was the only weapon he had.

He left the supply room as the guard gave his signal out the door. Cory slowly walked toward the stool and took the mop from the pail. The disinterested guard continued reading a comic book.

Cory put the mop on the floor and bent to grasp the pail’s handle with both hands. He swiveled his hips and brought the pail upward in a long swinging arc.

The pail caught the guard along the side of the head and toppled him from the stool. He gave a low groan and fell unconscious to the floor.

Water spewed down the corridor as Cory sprinted for the supply room. He crawled through the narrow space under the sink and turned sideways to fit through the small aperture.

It was necessary for him to turn his body completely until his buttocks were on the flooring and his head and shoulders stretched up inside the venting. He slowly inched his body back and up until he stood upright in the narrow vent.

He braced his legs against one side of the tube and his back against the other and slowly began a chimney climb up the vent.

The vent ended at the floor joists of the top floor. Cory eased himself from the narrow aperture and lay on the dusty temporary flooring a moment, in order for the trembling in his legs to subside.

The fourth floor of the building was a surrealistic place. It was a long open space broken only by occasional support columns. A thin layer of dust covered the floor, while droppings of soda cans and sandwich wrappers from long-departed workmen lay where they had fallen. The narrow, mesh-covered windows admitted a diffused light, which lay in long swatches across the broad expanse of open flooring.

He got to his feet and began to walk across the rough flooring toward the far corner of the building. If Ginny’s drawings were only roughly accurate, the elevator shafts would be in the southeast corner of the building.

A large square of concrete squatted in the corner of the building. It was the service module that contained air conditioning and electrical service boxes for the entire building. It also held the elevator shafts. As he approached the module he heard the whirr of machinery from the elevator shaft as the two cars that serviced the building below moved automatically from floor to floor.

The protective walls surrounding the shaft on this floor had not been erected. Two sides of the housing were open. Cables ran up toward the roof, where the lift mechanism occupied another service module. Cory peered down the shaft. Two floors below, he could see the top of the car. Machinery began to whirr; cables flowed past his face as the car moved upward to the third floor.

He tried to estimate how much time had elapsed since he first entered the supply closet on the third floor. Perhaps five minutes. He had hoped for a total of fifteen minutes before any alarm, but it was impossible to tell how long the guard would remain unconscious. There was no time to hesitate.

He leaned forward and grasped a greasy cable. His body swung out over the shaft and dangled in space. His hands slipped on the greasy wire of the heavy cable, and he slid for half a dozen feet until a wrapped leg around the cable brought his progress to a halt. He continued downward until his right foot gently brushed the top of the elevator car. He quickly let go of the cable and fell on all fours to the roof of the car.

The machinery above his head began to whirr as the car moved down to the floor below.

He heard the doors swish open on the second floor. Someone entered the car beneath him and coughed. The car began to descend.

The elevator halted on the first floor. Doors swished open and remained open.

Cory reached for the small trap door on the top of the car and pulled it open. A quick glance into the interior informed him that the car was empty. He swung down into the car, hesitated a moment, and then stepped outside into a corridor.

He was in the building’s main entrance vestibule. A uniformed officer sat at a small desk near the front door, which was thirty feet ahead. Two bulky men with gold badges protruding from breast pockets were in serious conversation to the left. A policewoman, holding a stuffed clipboard, hurried across another corridor that bisected the entryway.

Cory began to saunter to the front door.

The double glass doors were a dozen feet ahead. He passed the officer at the desk. He wanted to break into a run but held himself back and walked as casually as possible.

One of the double doors was held open by one man as a second limped through the entrance, holding tightly to a cane.

Sergeant Pierce looked at Cory’s face. Instant recognition flooded across the man’s features. For an instant he seemed speechless as his cane came forward to point at Cory’s chest.

“It’s Williams!”

Cory sprang forward and stiff-armed Pierce in the face. The man staggered backward and slammed against the tile wall. Cory ran toward the doors. He hit the second detective with his shoulder and the man went sprawling down the steps.

Pierce had pulled himself to his feet and fumbled at his belt for his service revolver. The cop at the reception desk stood. The two talking detectives turned in curiosity as Cory left the building at a full run.

“Get the son of a bitch!”

Two empty police cruisers were parked directly in front of the building. Across the street was a waist-high metal balustrade that separated highway lanes. Cory hurdled the barrier and ran out into a double stream of fast-moving traffic. He heard vague cries behind him as more police were flushed from the building in pursuit.

The heavy air horn of a semi blared as it bore down on him. He reached the far lane as car brakes squealed. A Ford went into a skid in order to avoid hitting him. He reached the far barrier safely, leaped it, and continued running.

He was fifty yards down a narrow alley between two warehouse buildings when he heard the first shot. He didn’t look back. No ricochet warned him of a near miss, and he conjectured that it was a warning shot fired into the air. He began to zigzag from one side of the narrow alley to the other.

Three more shots were fired nearly simultaneously. A bullet whined off the wall behind him. A part of his mind coolly assessed the situation. He tried to calculate the mathematical probability of a running man, firing a handgun, hitting a moving, weaving target thirty yards away. His odds were good, and he kept running.

As he drew closer to the end of the buildings, he saw a high chain link fence surrounding a group of parked construction equipment. The yard beyond the fence was filled with a menagerie of mammoth yellow vehicles: backhoes, bulldozers, rollers, and other odd-looking pieces of equipment whose functional use defied his knowledge.

Cory made a left turn at the end of the warehouse and ran along the edge of the fence. Ahead, he could see that the warehouse buildings had an ell extension containing a sealed loading platform that ran up against the chain link fence.

He was in a cul de sac only yards from his pursuers.

He turned and ran at full speed toward the fence. At the last moment he jumped and clawed with his toes for a hold in the narrow openings as his hands reached through the metal for a fingertip grip. He began to climb the fence much like a small animal scurrying up a cage wall. They were only seconds behind him.

He reached the top of the fence and threw one leg over the top supporting pole. A shot, fired from a position near the corner of the building, ripped through his pants leg.

Cory pulled the other leg over the fence, held to the top bar a moment, and dropped to the ground below as a fusillade of shots tore through the air. He took off in a weaving crouched run around a large bulldozer.

He ran an erratic path in and out, between the parked heavy equipment. As he approached the end of the yard, he stopped on the far side of a large building crane and looked back toward the fence.

Two men, one in uniform, the other in sport clothes, were nearly at the top of the fence. Their climb was impeded by the fact that each clutched a .38. A cluster of other police was at the base of the fence. They spread out and peered between the massive machines for a glimpse of him.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

There was a large shed near the corner of the yard. Cory ran around the building to keep its bulk between him and the pursuing police. He began to climb the fence and again dropped down on the far side.

Beyond the construction equipment park was a land-fill area. Large heaps of trash smoldered in gigantic piles that spewed small curls of dark smoke toward the sky. He frantically tried to orient himself as to his location within the city. As best he could remember, beyond the fill area was marshland that extended to the river. He began to run.

He took care to keep his mazelike course without predictability, and constantly to keep the piles of refuse between himself and the sightlines of his pursuers.

His breathing began to come in rasping gasps. The days in jail, combined with the nightly beatings, had begun to take their toll. In a few hundred yards he would have to rest. He continued past the piles of burning refuse until marsh grass stretched ahead. Beyond the marsh he could see the river. A red tug slowly pulled half a dozen barges along the waterway that bisected the city.

Cory plunged into the marsh grass and immediately sank to his knees in a quagmire-like mud. The massive effort to pull each foot from the sticky substance would quickly sap the last of his remaining strength. His already depleted reserves would rapidly diminish until he fell into the grass, exhausted.

He might remain hidden in the marsh for hours, but they would eventually find him. The area he had run through, and surrounding escape routes, would be quickly cordoned off and then throughly searched. It was hours until dusk. It would be impossible to remain hidden until nightfall.

The river stretched ahead. It was his only salvation. He plunged forward, each step an agonizing effort as he approached the river waters. The mud, almost as if it were working in consort with his pursuers, seemed to pull at his feet as he fought his way to the water.

He reached the river and plunged forward until the water lapped at his waist. Ahead, the third barge of the long line drawn by the insignificant-appearing tug chugged slowly downstream.

Cory began to swim.

He swam between the third and fourth barges and glanced up at the cargo. The vessels seemed filled with a wet, sludgelike material. He remembered that the Army Corps of Engineers was dredging the channel. These barges must be filled with gunk ripped from the bottom of the river by gigantic dredges.

On the far side of the line of barges he turned and swam parallel to the slowly moving hulks. On each side of the barges were ancient rubber tires hung as bumper guards. He grabbed the nearest.

He wondered if he had the strength to pull himself up on the tire, swing his feet in the rim, and stand in order to gain a handhold on the gunwales of the barge. He hung limply, letting the barge’s momentum drag him slowly through the water.

He must act at once. The longer he held to the rancid tire, the quicker his arms would tire. Soon, there wouldn’t be strength either to pull himself aboard or swim away.

It had to be done. He lunged, grabbed the hawser holding the tire, and pulled his body from the water. He swung his feet into the rim of the tire and levered himself over the gunwales.

He fell, panting, into the dark sludge of river-bottom dredgings.

Slowly, he began to scrape the foul-smelling substance over his legs and torso until he was nearly completely covered.

He was safe—for the time being.

CHAPTER 12

The man in Toledo impatiently tapped his foot until the phone connection was made. “Rook,” he snapped when the other line was picked up.

“You’ve heard what happened?” a distant voice asked.

“Of course. I want the board swept clean. The new game is far more important.”

“Too many pawns have already been sacrificed.”

“You know the game plan.”

“It will take some time.”

“See to it.” He crashed the phone back in its cradle and snorted, “Incompetents!”

The dredgings in the barge smelled of some unknown foulness. In the beginning, Cory had gagged and retched. But the human body can learn to accommodate to nearly anything, and in minutes he was able to tolerate the stench.

He moved his body slightly. He was covered. Even his hands, which had spread the muddy loam across his body, were now burrowed in the muck. Only the small oval of his face protruded from the filth. He would be invisible to all but the most minute inspection, and even that would have to be made by men actually standing on the barge.

He estimated that the towed barge moved at four miles an hour. He had been aboard ten to fifteen minutes. He had traveled a mile and was nearly beyond the city limits and headed downriver toward the distant ocean.

He had to plan. His past thinking hadn’t progressed beyond the difficult first step of escape. Now he seriously had to consider the next move. He must concentrate.

His eyes closed. He blinked them open. They closed again. The smell receded, and there was a warmth to the tailings that covered his body. His eyes closed a final time, and he sank into a deep sleep.

Cory awoke with a start. His nerves tightened as his fists clenched and his body arched into a sitting position. The stench assailed him, and he choked. He had been dreaming of the silent men who visited him late at night and beat him.

His sense of orientation returned, and he looked over the water toward the shore. The barge was making its slow way downriver. The locale was unfamiliar to him, and he searched for a landmark he might recognize. Two hundred yards away a bluff rose from the river and towered above them. A pine forest studded the top of the bluff. The promontory slid by, and the land of the bank flattened. An occasional house and barn could now be seen. A road wound into view and turned toward the access ramp on an interstate highway. The scenery sparked recognition. They were approaching the city of Middleburg.

Cory slipped off the stern of the barge into the water. The initial immersion sent a shock through him, and his heart began to pound.

He stood up a few feet from shore. The water was up to his waist, and he waded ashore. He stopped before climbing the bank and found himself in front of a stand of pine and hidden from view. The filth from the barge covered him, and he slowly removed each piece of clothing. He rinsed his body as well as he could and then washed the clothes. Naked, he climbed the bank and spread the clothes out in a small clearing to dry in the waning sun. He lay under a tree.

After dark he dressed and approached a small diner on the outskirts of town. Two semi rigs were parked in the side lot, and a large neon sign blinked on and off. He entered the double doored vestibule, and a counterman, in a grease-splotched apron, looked up with indifference. Cory slid onto a stool.

“Whatcha have?”

Cory realized how hungry he was. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and that had been skimpy at best. “A couple of cheeseburgers.”

The counterman turned and flipped two beef patties onto the grill, where they immediately began to sizzle.

He didn’t have any money. His wallet and change had been taken from him the day he had been booked. He beckoned to the counterman. “I don’t have any money.”

“Great.” The counterman flipped the meat off the grill. He turned back toward Cory. “Outta here, bum.”

“I thought maybe …”

“You thought wrong.”

Cory slid from the stool. He had his hand on the first of the two outside doors when the counterman called to him. “Come here.”

“What?”

The man behind the counter reached under a clear plexiglass bowl and took out two sugar-coated doughnuts which he wrapped in a napkin. “Here.” He thrust them toward Cory. “They’re yesterday’s anyway. Now, get out!”

Cory took the pastry. “Thanks.”

“And don’t come back.”

Cory walked into the parking lot and munched the first of the doughnuts. People were unpredictable, he thought. It almost made him sorry for stealing the fifty-cent tip money from the vacant seat at his side.

The middle-class baggage that so encumbered him forced a slow burn of embarrassment. How many hundreds of years ago had it been when he flipped business cards at people to establish his worth and identity? How many decades ago had it been when he had a pocketful of credit cards that could buy the most expensive meal in the finest restaurant?

He entered a lighted phone booth by the side of the highway and finished eating the last of the doughnuts. He dropped one of the precious stolen quarters in the slot and dialed.

The phone was answered on the fifth ring. “Clock and Chime, Fred speaking.”

“Let me speak to Ginny.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and then a casual but obviously suspicious reply. “Who’s calling?”

“Her ex-husband.”

Relief in the voice. “Okay, sure. I’ll get her. Hold on.”

Cory held the receiver in clammy palms. He hated to call this ingenuous woman, but she seemed the only option. He heard a clatter on the line as the phone was picked up.

“That you, Williams?”

“I …” He knew the voice. Detective Wilton James was on the phone. They had checked his visitors to the jail and turned up Ginny’s name. When he escaped they had followed her, tapped her phone, and placed her under constant surveillance.

“Come on in, Cory.” The voice was nearly hypnotic. “Tell me where you are, and we’ll come for you. Where are you, Cory?”

Cory hung up. The phone booth was located at the junction of two secondary highways, and the roads were not lit by street lamps. An occasional vehicle passed, its lights dappling against his legs and casting forward his elongated shadow. He walked on and clutched the remaining quarter in his hand.

Ginny would be watched. She would be followed, and her phone would be tapped. He had no doubt that the same surveillance would be made on his defense attorney, his brother, and God only knows who else of his acquaintance. They would watch every available connection. They would check every known haunt. He dropped the remaining coin in a still-damp pocket and walked on. His weapons were few.

He hid in a small park until he judged it was past midnight. He found another phone booth, in a small shopping center a mile down the road.

He dialed Ginny’s number. She answered on the first ring. “Hello.”

“Wentworth’s the best,” were his only words. He hung up. There would be men sitting in the basement of her apartment house with voice-activated tape recorders. They would have heard the words and they would know who called. They would talk to Wilton James and they would wonder. The question was, would Ginny know what he meant and what he meant for her to do?

He returned to the small park and crawled under a picnic bench. A cool night breeze made him shiver, and then he was asleep.

Cory stole his first car on the following morning. It took him three hours to do it. All his military training, his marksmanship, and knowledge of mortgage financing didn’t help. The truth was, he didn’t know how to hot-wire a car. He knew the theory, and how to do it, vaguely; something about crossing the ignition wires under the dashboard, but he feared the length of time it would take for him to figure it out.

He wandered through parking lots and along residential streets filled with lines of parked cars. He looked for one with the keys still in the ignition.

People were getting too damn careful, he thought ruefully after searching his third parking lot. He was hungry. The stale doughnuts of the night before had done little to assuage his hunger. He wanted a bath. The rinse of his dirty clothes in river water had not removed the stench of the filthy barge trip.

A battered white pickup with log shavings in the rear truck-bed had keys in the ignition. The owner had little fear that anyone but the most insane car thief would steal this decrepit vehicle. It was just what Cory needed. He climbed into the truck and turned the key. Surprisingly, the engine kicked over on the first try. It didn’t sputter and sounded well tuned. He threw the truck in gear and drove out of the parking lot.

“Wentworth’s the best,” he had told her over the phone. He hoped that the cryptic message would be enough to bring her to the proper place at the proper time. It was the only clue he could give her based on their short relationship.

He stayed away from major highways and took a winding way back to Deerford. He wanted to see her. The chase had been lonely. He needed someone. If she could only decipher his signal.

His message was a reference to something that happened the first day they stayed together. On the day of the attempted assassination, he had followed her into a supermarket, picked up a bottle of blue-cheese dressing, and told her how good it was. It was a small incident. Would she remember that the dressing was the Wentworth brand? Would she know the message meant for her to meet him in that supermarket at about the same time they had been there that first day?

Perhaps it was too much to hope for an uneducated waitress. He needed her. He needed someone to help him while his beard grew and he changed his appearance sufficiently to walk the streets with some element of safety.

He had to fight the impulse to drive faster. His foot felt leaden on the accelerator. He wanted to hurry, knowing that every minute he spent on the road in a stolen car made detection that much more likely.

He forced himself to drive at exactly the speed limit.

He approached the supermarket in Deerford on the street that ran parallel to its rear. He parked and found the alley that led back to the market’s loading platform. A digital clock mounted in front of a bank down the street told him it was nearly time.

He knew they would be following her. He had no idea if it would be Wilton James’s men or FBI agents. They would work in teams: one in a car outside the supermarket, while a second would follow her into the store. Contact was going to be difficult.

Cory left the stolen pickup and walked briskly down the alley to the loading dock at the rear of the store. He thought about grocery stores. His total past experience seemed to be one of vast indifference. Since his discharge from the army he had only shopped spasmodically. He ate more than half his meals in restaurants, and the other half were hastily thrown together from frozen ingredients. He passively disliked grocery stores, finished his marketing as quickly as possible, and waited impatiently in checkout lines.

He did know that many different people serviced large stores. Supermarkets contained not only employees of the chain, but men and women who worked for bread companies, baby-food manufacturers, and other suppliers who stocked and inventoried other items. A strange man on the floor would not be unusual.

He arrived at the loading dock and jumped to the plat form. He strode inside without hesitation. A line of long white butcher aprons hung on nails near the entrance. He slipped one over his head and tied it at the waist.

A teenager lopped leaves off of lettuce over a sink. He looked at Cory with indifference. Cory nodded, and the produce clerk went back to trimming lettuce.

Double swinging doors gave entrance to the store from the back room. There were small portlike windows in the doors. Cory stood at an angle and glanced out one of the ports. The meat counter ran along the rear of the store, while the front entrance entered into the produce aisle. There were half a dozen shoppers in the store, mostly women pushing carts where little children perched.

Involuntarily, he gasped.

Ginny had entered the store and was pushing a cart slowly down the produce aisle. From time to time she stopped to examine a piece of fruit with studied nonchalance, but her furtive glance down the aisle was nervous.

Cory nearly laughed aloud at the incongruity of the man in the business suit who followed her into the market. He did not recognize or know the man or the agency he worked for, but his status was as obvious as if he had worn a uniform.

The man in the suit kept half an aisle away from Ginny and examined an apple as if it had just fallen from the golden bough.

Ginny made the turn at the meat counter. She was not five feet away from Cory.

A storage area stretched across the rear of the store. Cartons and cases of merchandise were piled to the ceiling. Cory hefted a large carton of paper towels in his arms. He let its bulk cover his face and pushed through the double doors.

Ginny was halfway down the meat counter. Cory took the carton into the third aisle and set it on the floor. He bent to rip the cover from the box as Ginny slowly passed by the aisle.

“Gin,” he whispered.

She stopped stock-still but had some sense enough to pick up a package of pork chops and examine them carefully. He was only a few feet away but would be hidden from the man who tailed her, as he would have stopped at the far end of the produce counter.

“Cory?” her voice was barely audible.

“Don’t talk. There’s an employee’s bathroom in the back room. Ask to use it. It has a window. White pickup at the end of the alley.” He hefted the large carton and walked it back through the double doors into the back room.

The produce clerk had left, and the room was empty. He neatly hung the apron on its peg and went back to the loading platform, where he jumped to the ground and hurried down the alley.

He reached the truck and started the engine. If all went well, Ginny would ask an employee about the rest room, enter the bathroom, and immediately climb out the window. Her watcher would wait patiently by the double doors to the back room to make sure she didn’t leave by the rear exit. They would have less than five minutes before the tail’s suspicions were aroused.

She erupted from the window and ran down the alley toward him. He reached over and opened the passenger door. The truck began to roll as soon as she was inside.

Her arms were around him. “Oh, God, Cory! I didn’t know what happened to you. I’ve been worried as hell.”

He smiled. “Still crazy enough to come?”

“I didn’t have any better offers.”

“You understood my message.”

“Of course. I do the acrostics in the Sunday New York Times. In ink.”

He squeezed her hand. What manner of woman was this—acrostics, yet?

“You know, Cory, I think I’ve been followed since you escaped.”

He laughed. “I know you have.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the seashore. I thought you might like the serenity of the beach.”

“And the summer people haven’t arrived yet, and we can find a place to hole up. I went to the bank and took out all the money I had.”

“That was pretty thoughtful.”

She laughed. “Wait until you hear the amount. Eighty-nine bucks. It won’t get us very far.”

“It helps. I seem to be broke.”

She turned serious. “What happens if they catch us?”

“That depends on who gets us first. Certain parties will shoot us.”

“Oh.”

They drove silently for a few minutes. Cory once again kept to back roads as he wound his way across the small state to the coast. “Thanks,” he finally said.

“What for?”

“For coming.”

“I didn’t have anything better to do. Is this car … truck hot?”

“How would you know about such things?”

“My ex. He was an expert. He was a good-looking con artist. His last trick that I know of happened when he was working for a used-car lot. He’d take a car in on trade. If the tires were decent he’d switch them with a rotten set and then sell the good ones on the side. They caught him eventually.” She sighed. “He had the face of an angel and the soul of a sociopath.”

“You got out of that one; why get involved with me?”

“Because I love you,” she said simply.

They drove their meandering way toward the shoreline without speaking for a long time.

At Lantern City, a small town located on the coast, Cory had Ginny buy groceries and two bottles of liquor. She also went into a nearby drugstore for facial makeup. He waited nervously in the truck while she made the purchases. He had parked the pickup as inconspicuously as possible in the center of the lot and was surrounded on all sides by other cars. It would seem unlikely that a passing police car could easily pick them out, but the waiting was still a harrowing affair.

He saw her crossing the lot, pushing a grocery cart. He helped her load the bags in the truck.

“Where to now?” she asked.

“We’re going to borrow the summer home of some people I know.”

“A little B and E, breaking and entering, is what Tom would have called it.”

“Your ex?”

“Forever so.”

“You’re right.” He drove the pickup carefully out of the parking lot and turned toward the water. “My folks used to have a place two towns down from here. I know the area pretty well. There’s one house in particular that has a few advantages. It has an indoor garage where we can hide this heap, and it’s located away from the crowded part of the beach area. The final advantage is that the owner has pressing business in Deerford and won’t be visiting for a while.”

“You know him pretty well?”

“Norm Lewis and I go back a long way.”

The house was as Cory described it. It was a low ranch that sat on a promontory bracketed on two sides by wetlands composed of tall marsh grass. A tiny secluded beach of pure white imported sand stretched for a dozen yards down to the water, in front of a patio. The nearest neighbor was several hundred yards from the Lewis cottage and separated by a stand of pine. It was ideal for their purposes, and if he remembered correctly, the right front window never did latch correctly.

In the kitchen behind him, Cory could hear Ginny as she flurried about, preparing a meal. He sat at a small table in a sun-room with large windows overlooking the Sound. The bottle of bourbon before him was half empty. He intended to finish the other half.

Arms around his neck. A face nuzzling his. “How about broiled steaks, baked potato with sour cream, and a tossed salad?”

He didn’t answer.

“Don’t like?” She kissed him.

“Terrific.”

“You’re getting bombed, and it’s making you morose.”

“Where’d you learn that word?”

“Back in the days when I did the acrostic in pencil and used a dictionary.”

He looked up at her. Her eyes were wide as she looked down at him with a tenderness he hadn’t seen in her before. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Yes, you did.” She poured a drink. “If you want to get smashed, fine. The dinner will hold, and I could use a drink myself.”

“You have to understand that I’ve been through a bad time recently.”

“I know.”

“I’m not usually mean.”

“I know what you think of me. It doesn’t matter.”

“For Christ’s sake, Ginny! Don’t play the martyr with me. We’re going to be cooped up here until my beard grows out and we can make other arrangements. Don’t lay any guilt trips on me. Okay?”

She swirled the ice in her glass. “Okay. But I still know what you think, and it won’t stop me from being an animal in bed tonight. That is, if you don’t drink too much.”

“I never drink that much.”

She looked out the window as the sun settled over the water, “It’s pretty here, isn’t it? I wish we lived here. I mean, permanently and without … you know what I mean.”

“To say the least,” he said with a bitterness he hadn’t meant to express. He had showered for half an hour and found clean clothing of Norm’s that he managed to squeeze into. It had helped some, but the stench of barge dredgings and jail seemed to pervade his nostrils.

He finished the drink and refilled the glass with bourbon. He sipped it. Liquor wasn’t helping. The remembered smell filled the room and surrounded him with a dull mist. His life was shattered past redemption. He would have to fight for survival and battle for the answers to a dozen unanswered questions. He was pitted against force’s that were going to be difficult to overcome. He drank again and felt increasingly bitter.

“Are you ready to eat?” she asked. She sat on an ottoman near his feet and looked up with that damnable little-girl smile.

“No.”

“We’re going to get drunk and mean tonight?”

“Probably. At least I will. You never get mean.”

“Maybe you don’t know me well enough. I have a temper.”

He drank again. “You’re too damn dumb to have a temper.” The words slid from him without conscious thought, and he was immediately sorry he had said them. He looked into her face. She blinked twice, but her smile didn’t fade. “I’m sorry, Gin. That wasn’t fair.”

“I don’t have a college education, if that’s what you mean?”

“That doesn’t mean a goddamn thing.”

“Then why am I so dumb?”

“Because you’re being used and are too dumb even to know it.”

“I don’t mind.”

He slammed his glass down on the table and sloshed liquor over his fingers. “That’s just it. You don’t mind! For God’s sake, you’re liable to be arrested, killed, or both.”

“You need help. You’ll need me to go to the store for you and run other errands.”

“I’ll have a full beard in a few days and I’ll change the color of my hair. You could leave right now. Take the truck to Middleburg and abandon it. Take the bus from there to Deerford. They don’t have anything on you—yet. They might suspect you’re with me, but until we’re actually spotted together they have no proof.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“Damn it all! I am using you! I am using you for my own selfish ends. It’s just like your ex. He used you, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a tool. I’ll screw you. I’ll have you run my errands, and when push comes to shove, I’ll bug out on you.”

“No, you won’t.”

“I always have before. That’s me, kiddo. The original bugger-outer. As our former leader used to say, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” Well, that’s me. When it’s tough, I get going.”

She slid from the ottoman onto his lap. Her finger passed over his lips. “Shush.” She nuzzled against his neck and shoulder, bit the corner of his ear, and then whispered, “Let’s make love.”

“Jesus! Can’t you leave me alone for a goddamn minute?” He stood up so quickly, she fell off his lap and bumped to the floor. He saw her eyes fill with tears. “Oh, Christ, Ginny!” He turned away and walked to the window and looked out over the sea. “Make another drink, will you?”

He heard her behind him. A sniffle and then a clink of ice. Her arm reached around him with a glass, and he took it. “Here,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He looked unseeingly out the window. “I’ve fucked up this time, Gin. I mean, really fucked up. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the king’s you-know-what couldn’t put him back together again. There’s no way to get this act back together. You’re crazy as hell to stay around a sinking ship.” He finished the drink in three quick gulps. “I guess I’m really feeling sorry for myself, huh?”

No answer. He realized with a shock that he had wanted her to come up behind him and put her arms around his waist. He wanted to feel the firm warmth of her weight against him. He turned. She wasn’t there.

“Gin. Where are you, Gin?”

He took two steps across the room and fell unconscious.

CHAPTER 13

His fingers were balled into fists and his body was rigid. He was nude between clean starched sheets. His orientation returned as he looked slowly around the sun-drenched bedroom in the beach cottage. He groaned and sat up.

The door opened and she came in, carrying a tray. “I thought you’d be awake. I saved your steak from last night and fried up a couple of eggs to go with it. How does that sound?”

He was about to say, “lousy,” and then realized how hungry he was. He took the tray gratefully and began to cut into the steak. “How’d you know I like it rare?” he said through a mouthful of food.

“You just look like a rare person to me.” She stood at the foot of the bed with a tentative smile on her face. “I’m going to get myself a second cup of coffee.” She fled from the room.

He finished the steak and eggs and lay back on the pillow in contentment until she returned with two coffees. She gave him a cup and sat on the edge of the bed near him. “I passed out last night, huh?” he said.

“Yep. Middle of the floor.”

“How in hell did you haul me in here and get my clothes off?”

“Compelled by my erotic nature. But it didn’t do me much good. You weren’t exactly with it.”

He laughed. “I remember now. I thought you had taken my advice and run off.”

“You couldn’t drive me away with a stick.”

“Nutty broad.” He took her hand and squeezed it. Bright morning sun flowed through the window over her shoulder and seemed to surround her with an iridescent glow. An inner part of him, without actual physical movement, reached out to envelop her.

Cory put the coffee cup down on the floor next to the bed. He was confused with new feeling, Good God! I’m in love with her. Their eyes met, and she smiled shyly. He reached for her, and she came to him slowly until they were together.

He still loved her an hour later when he sat on the small beach in front of the cottage and watched her swim. She swam with strong strokes toward shore and stood up with the sea at her waist and hugged her breasts. “It’s cold,” she yelled at him.

He nodded and watched her run toward him. She hadn’t found a bathing suit that fit, and wore bikini panties and no bra. Her hips swayed lasciviously as she ran to him and threw herself down on the towel by his side. She began to towel briskly. “It’s cold. Or did I say that?”

“You did. I could have told you it would be.” He kissed her, and she laughed with a lilting catch in her throat as she ran her hand over the back of his neck. “I think I love you,” he said.

“I’m the only girl you’ve got right now, and you aren’t a very marketable commodity.”

“True. But it is nice.”

She became serious. “What now?”

“Back to the bedroom.”

“No. I mean, what plans, and stuff, are we going to make?”

“How much money do we have left from your funds?”

“Twenty dollars.”

He leaned back in the sand and crossed his arms under his head. A single white cloud directly overhead scudded before a stiff breeze. “Well, we need money first in order to keep life and limb together. Clothes. I think the better the clothes, the better chance we have not to be stopped and interrogated. I have the feeling that cops are less apt to stop an affluent-appearing couple than they are some scruffy-looking bunch. We should get your hair dyed and restyled.”

“You don’t like it?”

“Love it. But they must have pictures of you in circulation by now. I’m going to use corn starch in my hair to give me that older look.”

“Distinguished.”

“Of course. I’d also like a weapon of some sort. A handgun would be difficult to buy, but not a rifle. We really should have some sort of transportation besides a hot pickup.”

“Sounds like we need a lot of money. I don’t think our twenty dollars is going to go quite that far. I could get a job around here somewhere. They always need waitresses.”

“Too risky.”

“Where do we get the money, then?”

“I’m thinking about it. I wonder how my brother will react?”

“That’s too risky. Why don’t we hang some paper?”

“Hang paper?”

“Bad checks. My ex used to do it all the time.”

“You’re incorrigible.” He laughed. “Did you help your ex hang it?”

“Of course not. Come on, Cory. We’re being chased by half the people in this country and we have total assets of twenty bucks. You either hang paper or hold up a liquor store.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Which?”

“Hold up a liquor store.”

“Then?”

He laughed again. “I guess we hang paper. When do we start?”

She stood and stretched. Cory considered a return bout in the bedroom. She ran for the house and called back over her shoulder, “Soon as I shower and put on some clothes, we’ll make plans.”

The phone booth was hot and stuffy. His palms were damp, and a thin trickle of perspiration ran down his armpit. It was as much from nerves as from the humid interior of the confined space. He dialed, heard the operator intercept for the proper amount of money, and dropped the coins in the slot.

A harried feminine voice answered. A TV set blared in the background and a small child cried. “Hello.”

“Is Mr. Atkins home?”

“Just a moment.”

The phone clattered onto some surface, and Cory heard the woman yell out, “Phone!” The domestic sounds emanating from the house in Deerford were a contrast to his remembrance of the debonair special agent at FBI headquarters.

“Atkins here.”

“Cory Williams.” The domestic background of noise faded.

“I want you to come in, Cory. I promise you complete protection. As a federal prisoner I can have you transferred out of state if necessary.”

“Complete with nocturnal visitors?”

“There was no way for me to know that would happen.”

“But you do now?”

“I have my sources. Yes, I do know, but without you to testify, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Has anything turned up?”

“I need you to work with me.”

“I’d never live to do that. I’m convinced of it.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I want to show you my good faith. I’ve come around, Cory. I think there might be something in what you were trying to tell me.”

“What caused the change of feeling?”

“Two things: the men going into your cell at night and the camera.”

Cory’s hope surged. “You found it!”

“No. I don’t think we ever will, but I know what might have happened to it.”

“For God’s sake, what?”

“Those vacant offices in the high rise that you used the day of the presidential motorcade … you say you had a rifle with a camera attached?”

“Of course!”

“We found the rifle but not the camera.”

“Somebody took it.”

“Right. Sergeant Pierce and Wilton James were the first two officers to get to those rooms. They were in there at least three minutes, with the door closed, before they admitted anyone else. They had ample time to remove the camera and dispose of it. It’s not much to go on, not even enough for a memo to file, but it is a start.”

“It proves my story.”

“’Fraid not. But it does prove they had opportunity. You’ve got to come in. I’ll arrange a safe house where we can meet.”

Cory hung up and walked from the booth.

They had waited four days before leaving the beach cottage. Cory’s beard was half grown, and with the addition of avaitor-type sunglasses and a brimmed fishing hat, his face was unrecognizable. Ginny had dyed her hair brown, restyled it herself, and also wore sunglasses.

“Where do we start our life of crime?” he asked.

“We don’t soil our own nest.”

“Meaning?”

“We don’t pass paper in this town. Now, what’s the nearest affluent town? I want a place with specialty shops, expensive boutiques, and fine jewelers. A snazzy gift store would also be nice.”

“Essex, Connecticut.”

“Drive on, sir, to Essex. Just make sure you park this heap in some lot far from where I’m operating, or you’ll destroy my matron’s image.”

He parked in the rear of a bar down the street from a bank. He watched as she walked resolutely into the bank. She would establish an account with their remaining twenty dollars and then begin to work the nearby stores.

She had changed. In subtle ways she had begun to resemble the upper-middle-class woman she meant to portray.

She had told him what her modus operandi would be. No discount, liquor or cheap shops. It was imperative to patronize the most fashionable stores in town and purchase chic and expensive items. The check would be made out for the exact amount of the purchase.

“Seems to me,” he had said, “you’re going to end up with a terrific wardrobe, but we still won’t have any money.”

“Ah ha,” she exclaimed. “That’s not the way it works. I buy two dresses or two rings, say for a hundred apiece … it can’t be too much. Just little everyday items.” She laughed. “The next day, before the check has time to clear, I return one of the items. For cash.”

“Suppose they only give you a credit?”

“They have to post a sign to that effect. I only go to the better places who don’t ask questions of their very, very exclusive clientele. It’ll be easier tomorrow, when I got the good stuff to wear.”

“Fine. Just don’t say got.”

She laughed again. “Those of us who didn’t go to Miss Porter’s often say got.”

Even with the side-windows down, the cab of the pickup was humid. He left the truck and paced the parking lot until he saw her return. She was laden down with half a dozen large packages and boxes. She dumped the loot into the bed of the truck.

“Home, James. I will model for you over cocktails. Wait until you see some of the underwear, wow!”

“Lingerie,” he said as he drove back to the cottage and anticipated the viewing.

For the next several days they worked a dozen expensive towns. Purchases were made one day, and half returned the next. Their hoard of cash kept increasing with each returned item.

“This better be the last day,” she said.

“We’ve got nearly three thousand. If we use a thousand for a second-hand car, we still have working capital. Why stop now?”

“The checks are going to start bouncing. I’m also worried that my system is so similar each time that if a couple of the local police chiefs put two and two together there’ll be an alert out for us. This had better be the last morning.”

“Fine with me.” The returns she would make that morning were in the town of Slattery. Cory pulled the truck into a supermarket parking lot two blocks from the row of stores where she would be making her returns. They unloaded the boxes, and he helped her carry them toward the first store she would visit.

“There’s a bar on the corner,” she said. “Meet you there in …”

“Half an hour.” She smiled and took the boxes from his arms.

Cory intended to nurse a beer until she finished, but saw a sporting-goods store across the street. There was a large display of rifles in the window. He crossed the street and entered the store. A small bell above the door tinkled as he entered. The store was empty of customers, and for a moment he couldn’t see the proprietor.

A man got up from an easy chair located in a far corner near the cash register. “Help you?” He yawned.

“How do you stand the pace?”

“It’s tough. It does pick up when school lets out.” He was a very tall man, over six five. As was usual with sporting goods stores in small towns, the owners were ex-high school jocks who were unable to give up past moments of glory. This man looked basketball, as the excessively long rows of basketballs and sneakers indicated.

“I’m interested in a rifle.”

“I have a pretty good selection. Anything in particular?” They crossed to the far side of the store, where one wall was covered with a display of rifles, with boxes of ammunition stored below.

“I’d like to look at a 30-30 or a 30.06, semiautomatic. Something with a large magazine capacity.”

The tall man reached up and took down a weapon. “I imagine you’re looking for a deer rifle. Try the weight of this.”

Cory took the weapon by the pistol grip and snapped it to his shoulder. It had a good feel. The open sight was the type he preferred, and the bolt action was smooth. He opened the chamber and swung the weapon in an arc until it was pointing out the window toward a small flagpole above the store across the street. “Nice. How much?”

“Two and a quarter, and I’ll throw in a cleaning kit.”

“That sounds pretty …” Cory lowered the weapon as Ginny left the shop across the street. She was held tightly between two large men, who walked on each side of her. Even at this distance, Cory could see that her eyes were wide and frightened.

The threesome hesitated at the curb until the traffic light changed. One store down from the sporting-goods store was a brown Chevrolet. Its tall aerial and municipal plates marked it for a police car.

They must have been waiting for her inside the store and grabbed her as soon as she made her request for a cash refund. The initial charges would be second- or third-degree larceny, but once they began to book her it would all come out.

“How’s she feel to you?” the sporting-goods-store owner asked.

“Just fine.” Cory reversed the rifle and swung it in a short chopping motion that caught the clerk on the side of the head. The man fell behind the counter without a sound except the thud of his body hitting the floor. Cory hoped he hadn’t hurt the man permanently, but didn’t have time to dwell on it as he vaulted the counter and fumbled through boxes of shells for the right size. He found a box and spilled it across the counter as he stuffed the magazine and filled his pockets.

The detectives and Ginny were almost at the police car. In seconds they would thrust her into the rear compartment and drive away.

Cory clicked the loaded magazine into the rifle base and ran for the door. He reached it just as the detectives were opening their car’s rear door.

He snapped his first shot off with the rifle still held at his waist. The round ricocheted off the car roof and whined into the distance.

The men at the car froze. Cory fired again. The bullet screamed off the pavement to the back of a rear tire. “Hands on the roof!”

Ginny broke from their grasp and ran toward him. The instant her body interjected itself between the detectives and Cory, the two police officers fumbled for their service revolvers and dropped behind the protecting bulk of their vehicle. Cory fired three shots in rapid sequence. He spaced the bullets evenly along the windows of the car. He fired for noise and shock effect, to keep them pinned down.

Next door to the sporting-goods store was an Exxon gas station. A mid-seventies Buick convertible was stopped at one of the pumps. The car’s occupants, a man and a girl, turned in their seats to look toward the shooting. The attendant stood stock-still with the hose in his hand. Gas dribbled from the hose nozzle onto the pavement. Cory pushed Ginny toward the convertible. “Over there. That car!”

A shot blew small bits of concrete into the air, four feet to the left. The detectives had begun to fire from their crouched position behind the car. Ginny ran toward the convertible as Cory backed up. He held the rifle at his waist and fired again and again. Bullets dug into the asphalt a foot in front of the two crouched men.

Ginny reached the convertible and ripped open the driver’s door. “Hey!” the man yelled.

Cory turned and waved the rifle at the couple. “Out! Fast!” They scrambled from the car as Ginny swung behind the steering wheel and turned the ignition. Cory turned back toward the firing police as a shot plowed through the rear of the car. He fired a series of three rounds, spacing them carefully and methodically, near the detectives.

Before the reverberation of the last shot had died, he swung himself into the car and yelled over his shoulder. “Go!”

Ginny threw the car in gear and careened over the gas-station apron. A fusillade of shots was fired at them from the police car; and a siren wailed in the distance.

Facing out over the rear of the convertible, Cory fired another series of shots: two into the front tires of the unmarked car, and the final one into the upper part of the grille. He hoped that his weapon had enough muzzle velocity to carry the projectile through the radiator and across the engine block, shattering spark plugs and the carburetor.

Ginny took the corner on two wheels, and they were safe from the firing detectives. “Where to?” she yelled back without turning.

“Keep going. We’re not out of this yet.” He fumbled with the cartridges in his pocket and jammed them into the empty magazine.

As he pushed the magazine back into place, a police cruiser rocked around the corner behind them. Its revolving dome light flashed and its siren blared.

Cory levered himself into a comfortable position on the rear seat. The rifle protruded over the recessed convertible top. The pursuing car, as if the driver were aware of his intention, began a weaving pattern as it pulled closer behind them.

Cory fired a series of three.

The second shot took out a front tire. The car began to skid as its driver fought for control. It turned sideways and screeched to a halt against a parked car. A uniformed officer jumped from the vehicle and snapped a shotgun to his shoulder. He fired twice in rapid succession at the fleeing convertible.

Cory heard a few shotgun pellets rattle against the bottom of the trunk. Ginny turned the next corner, and they had evaded another of their pursuers.

“What happened in the store?” he yelled at her.

“The owner was of a suspicious nature. He called the bank and found my check was NG. He must have suspected that I’d be back today—those big guys were waiting for me. Have we lost them?”

Again, the sound of sirens. The street, before and behind them, was empty, but the siren sounds seemed to surround them. “I think they’re running parallel to us,” he yelled as he swung his feet over the seat. “At an intersection, somewhere ahead, they’ll block the road. Be ready for them.”

“Great.”

Cory sat tensely with the rifle balanced on his knees. When the sound of sirens on either side of them stopped, he knew they were nearing the roadblock.

The road made a gentle sweep to the left. When they completed the turn, they saw the barricade ahead. Two police cruisers were parked across the road. Three uniformed men waited. Two were behind the cars, with revolvers braced on the roof. A third stood between the two cars, with a shotgun.

“I’ll try and swing through one of those side yards,” Ginny yelled.

Their approach to the roadblock seemed to be in slow motion. Cory didn’t like the assured appearance of the cop with the shotgun. He seemed calm, cool, and calculating. He raised the rifle and slowly led them as they approached. The man with the shotgun was bent slightly forward to cushion the impact of the recoil; one elbow was stuck out at right angles to his body. He stood in a professional shooting stance.

Cory balanced his rifle on the rim of the windshield and leaned forward to sight. “Steady, steady, steady,” he mumbled under his breath. The cop with the shotgun appeared to be sighting directly at him. Cory could almost feel the gentle increasing trigger pressure as the distance between the car and barricade rapidly closed.

“I’m going to turn in a sec,” she called.

“Steady,” he murmured. He had one advantage in that his rifle had the greater range, and two disadvantages in that the man with the shotgun was not shooting from a rocking platform, and his shot pattern was far wider. Cory knew that when Ginny made her last-second swerve to go around the blocking vehicles, the shotgun would fire one or more times. They would be hit.

Cory began to shoot. He walked his rounds across the side of the blocking vehicles at knee level. The Buick rocked violently and it was a difficult shot. The man with the shotgun seemed unperturbed by the approaching shot patterns and still aimed, coolly waiting for the distance to close.

Cory’s fourth shot caught him in the lower leg, and he crumpled to the pavement.

Ginny swerved the car across a side yard, pushed over three mailboxes and a bike, and rocked back into the street.

A battery of shots was fired at them. The acute angle of their new path caused them to miss.

“I’m beginning to feel like Bonnie and Clyde,” Ginny said.

“Remember, in those days the police didn’t have radios to coordinate with.”

“I’ll turn on the interstate. We can make better time.”

“That would be certain capture. The state police are probably already setting up blocks in both directions. Stay on back roads and weave in and out of residential streets. We’ll dump this car and get another method of transportation.” Cory jammed the rifle butt under the dashboard and wedged the barrel between the seats.

“They’re going to get us, Cory.” For the first time during the harrowing chase an edge of panic tinted her voice.

“A couple of miles and we’ll be in Old Saybrook. We’ll park this clunker, with the roof up, in a commuters’ parking lot. There’s one near the train station.”

“If you say so.”

They made it to the town of Old Saybrook and pulled into a secluded parking lot. The main New York-to-Boston Amtrak line passed through here, and Cory had ridden it a number of times when he returned to school.

He had difficulty getting the car roof up, but finally managed to release it and wedge it shut over the front windshield. There were two bullet holes in the fabric.

They left the rifle hidden in the car and walked through an old cemetery that abutted the railroad tracks. Once inside the station, Cory discovered that the next train left in ten minutes.

They sat quietly on worn benches inside the station, with their knees touching. It was the longest ten minutes of their lives.

CHAPTER 14

“It’s got to be them!” Sergeant Pierce slammed the teletype flimsies down on Wilton James’s desk. “Look at the goddamn marksmanship. No one but him shoots like that.”

“What about the description of the girl?”

“It could be her. The guy wore a beard, and her hair was different, but I tell you, it’s him.”

“Uh huh.” Wilton James arrayed the flimsies in heat rows across his bare desk. He puffed contemplatively on his pipe. “We better let Rook know about this.”

“He won’t help.” Pierce snorted. “It’s ours.”

“It looks like they’ve been hanging paper all along the coast.”

“They’d need bread.”

“Yes, wouldn’t they?” James took a map from his center desk drawer and spread it across the flimsies. He made half a dozen marks on various towns along the shore. “I like the pattern. They hit every affluent town in a row except”—he pointed with his pipe—“except Lantern City.”

Pierce snorted again. “Amateurs.”

“Yes, aren’t they? Lantern City. Interesting choice. There must be a reason for it, Pierce. There’s always a reason.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.” The sonorous voice of the announcer was replaced by applause as the tall man walked across the stage and stood behind the podium. He waited for the room to quiet and, leaning slightly forward, gripped the sides of the lectern. His words were soft and measured and yet filled with deep sincerity.

“I have decided to take my cause to the people of this country,” the President said. “I have the utmost faith that the will of our populace will express itself in support of my program. The currents of distrust, ignorance, and hysteria must be turned aside. I say this not for this administration, or for those in this room, or for those listening across the land. I speak for the uncounted. I speak for the unborn, those unable as yet to express themselves or exert their will. I speak for the children of our children, who must be protected and allowed to flourish.”

Half the audience of journalists and cabinet members stood to give resounding applause to the President’s words. Others sat mutely with their hands by their sides. Their countenances were cold in disagreement.

“It is time for the great thaw,” the President continued. “Forty years of cold war have shown it to be an impractical and fruitless response to our adversary. Détente has proven to be a myth. As your President, I am prepared to make the leap of faith and truly enter into a partnership of peoples. And that shall be the name of this crusade, and I place my reputation, my life, and my presidency on that course.”

Cory snapped off the television set. “They’re going to kill the poor bastard,” he said softly.

“You don’t agree with him?” Ginny asked.

“Jesus, I don’t know. I was in the military. When you train for years to kill people, you tend to think along the lines of killing people. I’ve never been very political—a reaction to my father,” he said with a rueful smile.

“They’re going to try again, aren’t they?”

“You know it.”

“Who are they?”

“Ginny, if I knew that, we wouldn’t be hiding here.”

“We don’t have to stay here. We’ve got the car we bought. We can go, Cory. We can leave here, leave this state … go to California.”

“I just told you, they’re going to kill President Crescatt.”

“You said you weren’t even sure he was right.”

“I don’t, but I do know we can’t change foreign policy by killing our leaders. When the Romans began doing that, they went downhill fast.”

“What are we going to do?”

“My beard’s long enough; we have a little money and a clean car. I can’t put it off any longer. I have to start with the beginnings.”

“Which is where?”

“Atkins of the FBI. I’m also interested in Detective Wilton James and what happened out at the Hunt Club. I’ll start with Atkins and see if I can arrange a safe meeting.”

“Can you trust him?”

“It would seem that I’m going to find out.”

Cory sat in his room on the third floor of the Arriwani Hotel, across the street from the federal building in downtown Deerford. It was a transient place filled with dreamless older men existing on social-security or welfare checks, and hard, rootless younger men who drifted from city to city in an endless search for “the break.”

It was taking too much time, and that was the very thing he had little of. He sat in his room all day and watched the entrance of the building across the street. Atkins arrived for work early, usually before eight. He exited from the building at nine, for coffee at a small shop next to his office. During the remainder of the day he would be in and out in the course of business.

On the third day Cory began to formulate his approach. It was simple, straightforward, and dangerous. The special agent had one cup of coffee and browsed through a newspaper. Cory would use that time for the contact.

Special Agent Ralston Atkins of the Federal Bureau of Investigation did not arrive at work early to make “points.” He was the first at his desk for the simple reason that when he drove eight-year-old Deborah to school, it didn’t make sense to drive all the way back home for that final cup of coffee. He was first at the office, put in an hour’s work, and then went out for coffee at nine.

Two more years and he would have twenty with the Bureau. It was time to pack it in. He had feelers out with the Armond Machine Company in Deerford, and they were receptive to a new chief of security. In two years their present security head would retire, and that corresponded nicely with Atkins’s twenty in the Bureau. The hours would be more regular, and the ache in the pit of his stomach might pass away forever. He knew the ache well. He had first felt it in the closing days of the Korean War. It occurred again when he was first fired upon during an arrest.

The ache had recently returned for a more intangible cause, but he knew it concerned Cory Williams. He had a feeling about the case, and for inarticulated reasons believed Williams’s wild story. A hundred pieces didn’t fit, and yet somewhere there was an answer. He had another feeling that he had read something that was a part of the puzzle, but he couldn’t place it.

A hundred informational memos passed across an agent’s desk each year. They were read and initialed, but the sheer bulk of information was such that most of it was lost in the exigencies of day-to-day work. He would glance through the complete file later today.

As he was examining inter-agency reports, the official summary of the police blockade and shoot-out in the shoreline area caught his attention. The concise abstract of facts was written in the usual police verbiage, but he could vividly reconstruct the events. Few men in the country were able to duplicate the marksmanship of the man in the convertible. Cory Williams was one of those men.

Atkins was still mulling over the report as he left his desk and went downstairs for coffee. He could have stayed at his desk and had coffee from the serving cart, but he always felt that the break in routine was beneficial.

He slid onto a stool at the center of the counter in the small luncheonette, and coffee and a sweet roll were immediately placed in front of him.

“Morning, Mr. Atkins.”

“Morning, Sam,” he replied automatically and realized that he had forgotten to buy his usual newspaper at the stand in the building lobby. He couldn’t stop thinking about the man with the rifle.

Something poked his side. He turned to face the man on his left. “Is that really a gun, Williams?”

“I need to talk.”

“Come up to the office.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“We’ll take a walk over to the park.”

“Now.”

“Let me pay for my coffee.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” Cory said softly. “Keep it cool.”

“I will.” Atkins slipped a dollar under the rim of his saucer and slid off the stool. He walked slowly out the front door. He had made up his mind to talk with Williams. The park was only two blocks away, and while they walked its paths between sleeping derelicts they could exchange information. He would offer Williams sanctuary in a safe house out of state and assure him of the Bureau’s cooperation. It made sense. There was more here than he had initially imagined.

Atkins stopped at the corner to wait for the traffic sign to blink to “walk.” He sensed Cory behind him but did not turn. On the far side of the street a bearded young man had set up a card table near the corner. A crudely hand-lettered sign was stretched across the front of the table and read:

BAN THE NUKES COMMITTEE FOR THE CONTROL OF NUCLEAR ENERGY

The “walk” sign came on, and Atkins stepped off the curb. He smiled toward the man at the card table. “Soon we’ll have a committee for everything,” he thought with a bemused smile.

For an instant his stride broke, and he nearly stopped in the center of the street. He had the connection. It was the committee; there was a committee. It was in a report he had read six weeks ago that came out of the Toledo office. It had circulated for only the briefest of time. His early hours at the office had made him one of the few to see it before the call came from Washington, ordering all copies to be immediately shredded. Yes, that was a piece to the puzzle, a piece that he would tell Cory about.

Ralston Atkins never felt his spine shatter. The truck with the high bumper caught him across the small of his back. Several vertebrae were instantaneously crushed, and conscious thought fled before his dead body hit the pavement.

Cory assumed the speeding truck was meant for him, and he instinctively scrambled for the curb.

It hit the FBI agent a dozen paces in front of him, and he saw the skewered posture of the man as he was flung to the street. He knew Atkins was dead.

The truck accelerated down the street and screeched around a far corner.

There were quick and silent ways to open ordinary house locks, but Cory didn’t know any of them. He broke the rear window of the kitchen door with a brick he found edging a small garden. He reached through the broken glass, flipped the lock on the door and entered Wilton James’s darkened home.

The rooms revealed the man. The fact that a woman had once lived, cooked, cleaned, and loved here was now obliterated. The furniture seemed new, as if it were purchased after the woman’s death. The rooms were filled with bulky leather chairs, deep ashtrays, and cannisters of tobacco. It was a man’s home and reflected strong masculine tastes.

One room remained untouched, as it had for over ten years. It was a young man’s room, filled with a bookcase of adventure stories, athletic trophies, a traffic sign on one wall, and a line of odd-brand beer cans along the dresser. A silver-star medal was framed against a velvet backdrop. It hung near the news article concerning the death of Robert James in Viet Nam. The room was a shrine to a dead man.

What had once been a third bedroom was now converted into a study. Several police citations hung along a wall over a heavy mahogany desk. Cory sat in the desk chair and began to search the desk drawers. The center drawer was locked. He located a tool box in the cellar and returned to the study to force it open with a hammer and chisel.

There were three items in the drawer: a loaded .38 caliber police special, an address book, and a plaque. The plaque was identical to the one on the wall in Norm Lewis’s gun room. It announced that Wilton James was a member of the Committee of One Thousand.

The connection was made. Lewis and the detective knew each other.

He flipped through the address book. Under L there were the initials NL and a telephone number. Cory recognized the number as Norm’s.

He tucked the revolver into the waistband of his trousers and continued searching. Deep in the bottom drawer was a large manila folder. He dumped its contents onto the surface of the desk.

The news clippings had been meticulously snipped from a number of papers. They seemed to represent a time span stretching over the past two years and concerned the President. He shuffled through the lot and picked out several representative ones:

“President Announces New Era in Détente.”

“Press for Peace, Crescatt Says.”

“Chief Executive Takes Cause to People.”

Cory continued his search of the house, but there was nothing else of interest. He left by the back door and walked to the car.

As he drove away, he planned his next step and thought about what he knew. Atkins had begun to put certain things together and had been killed for what little he knew. Wilton James controlled Sergeant Pierce and in turn knew Norm Lewis. They were all members of the so-called Committee of One Thousand. It wasn’t much information, but far more than he had known a few days ago.

The Bay Bridge Motel did a backwater business. During the off-season it had a few regular traveling salesmen, and during the season it took the overflow from nearby Holiday Inns and Howard Johnsons. Since it was located in Lantern City, it suited Wilton James’s purposes perfectly. He liked out-of-the-way places where their car could enter and leave in relative anonymity. His only requirement was cleanliness, and the Bay Bridge Motel nearly qualified.

Sergeant Pierce sat on the second double bed with a can of beer clenched in his fist. He tilted the can to his lips and drained it before lobbing it across the room into a metal wastebasket. “I say we call in the locals. Maybe even get a few trustworthy guys in from Deerford to help. Hell, let’s shake this whole damn town until they fall out.”

“I think it judicious we do it ourselves.”

“That could take forever. We don’t even know if they’re still in Lantern City.”

“They’re here,” the senior detective said matter-of-factly. “You sign out on sick leave?”

“Like you said. I got the cast off.” The bulky sergeant rubbed the lower part of his leg. “That son of a bitch.”

Wilton James tapped the street map spread out on the bed beside him. “I think they’re here, and I think they have a limited number of places to hole up.”

“I’ve checked out all the motels and inns. They aren’t there.”

“They aren’t that dumb.”

“Hell, Wilton. There’s probably two thousand houses in this berg, and half of them are empty summer places.”

“Exactly. And they’re in one of those empty cottages. Men are creatures of habit. When they go to ground, they run to known burrows. What contacts does Cory Williams have in this town?”

“None that I know of.”

Wilton James stuffed his pipe slowly. “Then I suggest we find one. Get his file from the car.”

“Jesus! There must be two thousand pages of notes and interviews in those files.”

“And somewhere in those pages is a hint, a pattern, something that links him with Lantern City. Get the files, Pierce. Now!”

Dawn streaked the sky. A low mist hung waist high and curled around trees as Cory turned onto the road that ran parallel to the Hunt Club. He had walked the road a dozen times in the past and knew that it led past several ancient house foundations, ending in a meandering path that turned into a deer run. He drove the car several hundred yards until he was well away from the main road. After dousing the headlights he let the car roll silently to a stop. The morning mist gave the area an eerie cast. As he left the car and began to walk a wide semicircle toward the club, he felt a forboding presence surrounding him.

The ghosts of farmers absorbed a century ago into the industrial plants of nearby Waterville walked with him. He knew that the apparitions represented his own anxiety, but this visit was one of the few options he had left.

He stopped and took the pistol from the waistband and twirled the chamber. It was fully loaded. Then he replaced it and walked warily on.

At first glance the Hunt Club seemed untouched by the fire that had taken Ed Robinson’s life. It wasn’t until he made a complete circuit of the desolate building that he saw smoke and soot marks surrounding a bedroom window in the northwest corner of the second floor. The glass must have been broken out by the volunteer fire department, but it had been replaced. Will Ratherman, the club’s custodian, must still be around. Cory slipped the gun from his waistband and held it firmly in his right hand.

Will Ratherman fought demon-filled sleep. The custodian moaned and squirmed on the narrow bed. An arm encased in a smudged thermal-underwear shirt unconsciously brushed the stubble on his chin.

Cory stood in the doorway of the small bedroom behind the kitchen and looked around. The kitchen light, to his back, fell across the floor. The room was crowded with the minutiae of a man’s hermitlike existence. A faded magazine photo of Jacqueline Onassis was taped to a splotched mirror over the dresser. Cartons and footlockers seemed to fill every available space in the narrow quarters. A shotgun in the far corner was probably loaded with buckshot to fire at marauding predators.

He took two steps across the room and picked up the shotgun. He levered the action until shell casings ceased ejecting from the chamber.

Ratherman sat up in bed. His hands clutched the edge of the worn army blanket. “Who’s there?”

Cory took two steps forward and placed the barrel of his pistol against the side of the custodian’s head. “I want some answers, Will.”

The man on the bed blinked, and blinked again. “That you, Mr. Williams?”

Cory pressed the barrel deeper into the flesh of the man’s cheek. “You know it is, Will,” he said softly.

“I had the feeling you’d be coming out here. I stayed up the first couple a nights after you busted loose. I thought you’d come but I had to get some sleep sometime.”

“Come on.” Cory waved the pistol toward the kitchen. “Put on some coffee, and we’ll have a chat.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Williams.” The custodian levered his legs out of the far side of the bed, away from the muzzle of Cory’s pistol. “I’ll turn the pot on. You know me. I make good coffee. Everyone always said that.” He pulled paint-spattered overalls over his long underwear and slipped his bare feet into muddy brogans.

“Hurry up.”

Cory stepped into the kitchen and crossed to the stove. He lifted the lid on the coffee pot that perpetually sat over a rear eye. It was still half full of yesterday’s brew. He lit the flame under the pot.

His back was to the bedroom door when he heard the custodian shuffle out of the room. “Raise ’em slow, Mr. Williams. Real slow or you get a charge of shot in your back.”

Cory turned to see Will Ratherman standing ten feet away, with the shotgun pointed at him. “Put that down, Will.”

“I said slow. I don’t want to cut you in half. That’s what this shot will do at this range.”

Cory raised the pistol and shot Ratherman in the thigh. The shotgun clicked twice on empty chambers before the man hit the floor.

Cory walked over to the fallen man, who clutched his bleeding leg and stared up at him in terror. He bent over and again placed the barrel of the pistol inches away from the man’s head. “Do you want to die?”

“No.” It was an anguished choking reply.

“That’s what’s going to happen unless you tell me everything I want to know.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Williams. I’m going to bleed to death unless you help me.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Cory put the pistol on a far counter and bent over the fallen man to rip away the blood-soaked overalls. He worked hurriedly to staunch the bleeding and tie a makeshift bandage over the wound.

Later, Ratherman sat at the long kitchen table with his leg elevated on a stool. He cupped a coffee mug with both hands. The hands shook.

“How did Robinson die?”

“We had a fire. He was up there with a girl, and they must have had a cigarette or something. Coulda burned the whole place down.”

“Where were you?”

“Asleep. Nearly unconscious.”

“Tell me.”

“It started a coupla days before. I got a call from one of the members. He had a friend wanted to say here a day or two.”

“What member?”

“Norm Lewis.”

“Go on.”

“I said sure. I mean, members do that ever’ once in a while. So this guy comes up here. A big guy. I mean, real big. Didn’t have much luggage. Didn’t want to shoot, or nothin’. He just sat around, and we played cards and drank whisky.”

“Tell me about this man. Exactly what did he look like?”

“Short hair. About forty. Broad shoulders.”

“Did he carry a gun in a holster on his belt or across his shoulders?”

“He did. I figured he was some sort of cop.”

“Sergeant Pierce,” Cory said.

“Who?”

“Never mind. Then what?”

“’Long about mid-evening, we’d been drinking, and me winning him at gin, something happened.”

“You passed out.”

“They told you.”

“I can guess. Then?”

“Then, I don’t know. I woke up late in the night. I don’t know what woke me up.” The man retreated back inside a shell. “That’s all. You know the rest.”

“I don’t think so.” Cory extended his arm along the table-top and braced his gun hand. The barrel pointed directly at Will Ratherman. The man at the far end of the table looked at him and his eyes widened. “You know more.”

“They’ll kill me. I didn’t mean to see anything. I don’t think I was supposed to see anything.”

“But you did.”

“Put that gun down, huh?”

“Tell me what you saw.”

“I figure the big guy I was drinking and playing cards with slipped me something.”

“Chloral hydrate.”

“Huh?”

“A Mickey.”

“Yeah. I can drink pretty good, you know. I mean, I got lots of practice up here all alone. I never passed out like that before. I can always stagger into bed. This time, I don’t know. One minute I’m playing cards, and the next, I’m out. I woke up in the middle of the night. I got a strong constitution; and that stuff don’ knock me out like it would some people. I got outta bed, and before I left the room I looked out the window and saw two guys outside, carrying a big sack.”

“What did the other man look like?”

“Don’t know. Couldn’t see well enough. He smoke a pipe; that’s all I could tell.”

“What did they do with the sack?”

“Buried it. Out behind the north wall, about four hundred yards from the house.”

“Then what?”

“Then I smelled smoke. I had to wait until those guys left. When I heard them go, I ran upstairs. Robinson was burning; there wasn’t anything I could do. I called the fire department, but he was dead before they got it under control.”

“All right. Can you hobble outside and show me where they buried that sack?”

“Guess I have to, huh?”

“You do. And tell me where there’s a shovel.”

It took Cory twenty minutes to dig up the sack and rip it open. He looked down at the body of Joe Page for a long moment before he turned away and retched in the high meadow grass.

CHAPTER 15

“How did you get in here?” Ruth Lewis asked.

“Over the pool cabana and through the solarium.”

“Sounds like a book title.” She turned away and walked to a bar cart in the far corner of the living room. “Martini, isn’t it?”

“With twist.”

“Of course.” She mixed the cocktail with dexterity, pouring such exact amounts of ingredients into the shaker that the poured cocktail exactly brimmed the rim of the glass. She prepared a Scotch and water for herself.

“What’s this?” He held up the plaque he had removed from the gun-room wall.

“Let me see.” She took the Committee of One Thousand plaque, looked at it myopically for a moment, and shrugged. “Some big-deal organization Norm belongs to.”

“Tell me about it.”

She sipped her drink. “I don’t inquire about the commodity market or Norm’s politics, and he allows me my extracurricular activities.”

“Then it is political?”

“If it’s not making money, anything else Norm does is political.”

“You must know something about it. He goes to meetings, or letters arrive.…”

She watched him over the lip of her glass. “Are you going to make love to me? I’ve never done it with an escaped convict.”

“Would you like me to ravish you on the rug?”

“Best offer I’ve had all day. Are you making it with that little waitress who helped you escape?”

Cory felt a burning resentment at her condescending attitude toward Ginny. “You’ve turned into a real bitch, Ruth. It makes you and Norm a matched pair. You set me up didn’t you?”

“If I say no, you wouldn’t believe me, and if I tell you I did, you might kill me.”

“I’m not going to kill you.”

She finished her drink and mixed another. “Yes, I helped. You always were kinda dumb, Cory.”

“Tell me about the Committee?”

“What’s to tell? I’m not a member.”

“Tell me anything, no matter how unimportant it may sound.”

“Norm’s father brought the concept back from South America! It seems that down there, there’s a network or committee that stretches throughout the southern hemisphere. It’s made up of politicians, police, and army officials. I think that certain bureaucrats and very, very rich men are also included. Of course they claim to have the highest moral standards and patriotic feelings … maintaining the status quo neatly sums it up.”

“And it’s the same in this country?”

“As far as I know.”

“Who else is in it?”

“Two other men in Deerford that I know. I think they’re police officers. I’m not even supposed to know that much.”

“And in other places?”

“I don’t know. There’s a man in Toledo they call Rook, who calls Norm once in a while. That’s the only other contact I know.”

“For someone who claims not to know anything, you seem to have a good deal of information.”

“Not really. I’ve told you all except for one thing.”

“Which is?”

She slowly crossed her legs and tilted her head in an overt expression of sexuality. “They’re going to kill you,” she said matter-of-factly.

He was used to the constant clangor of phones and was able to differentiate his when it buzzed. He snatched the receiver from its cradle without averting his eyes from the slow march of numbers crossing the computer console on his desk.

“Lewis.”

“We’re in Lantern City. I know damn well he’s here, but don’t know where.”

“Damn it, James! I told you never to contact me here.”

“Time is of the essence.”

“Isn’t it always?” Lewis said dryly.

“Listen, Lewis. I’ve stuck my neck out ten thousand miles on this. I want your cooperation. You know him better than anyone. You know his past and his friends. We’ve been through our files twice and can’t find any connection between Williams and Lantern City.”

“Connection?”

“Does he know anyone down here? Did he ever know anyone? Men are predictable creatures of habit.”

Norm Lewis flicked off the console on his desk. “Yes, there’s a connection. I have a summer place in Lantern City. He’s been there a hundred times, going back to when we were kids.”

“Address?”

“Two Cove Lane. It’s the last house on the road, and located on a small beach.”

The phone clicked dead. Lewis stood up. He would wait for their return call at home. It shouldn’t take too long.

Norm Lewis left his office and walked toward the stairs leading down to the garage. If he hurried, he would be home in ten minutes.

The faint scratch of a latchkey in the front door startled them. Ruth’s glass fell to the floor and rolled noiselessly over the carpet. Cory pulled the revolver from his waistband and gestured for silence.

The outer door banged shut. They heard him in the hall. “Ruth! Where in hell are you?”

Cory braced his back against the wall near the door. He silently mouthed the word “answer.”

“In here, Norm.” She picked up her glass with shaking hands and kept her back to the door as she mixed another drink.

Norm Lewis stalked into the room. His back was to Cory. “Now you’ve started sloshing down the booze in the middle of the afternoon. What’s the matter with you?”

“I had a visitor.”

“I don’t give a damn who …” Norm turned to face Cory’s gun. He seemed fascinated with the barrel pointing in his direction. “Put that down, Cory. The cops are on their way.”

“Sit down. Keep your hands on your knees.” Cory watched his old friend sit down slowly on the edge of an easy chair.

“What do you want?”

“Information.”

“Stop pointing that thing at me.”

“What’s the Committee?”

“What in hell are you talking about?”

“This.” Cory waved the plaque at him.

“Christ! You’ve seen that before. I told you that we’re a bunch of police buffs who support our local authorities.”

“Cut the crap! I found a similar one in Wilton James’s house. And I understand Rook has one on his wall.”

The room darkened as storm clouds gathered. Thunder faintly rumbled in the distance.

Norm’s voice dropped. “What did she tell you?”

Ruth sputtered in a near whine. Cory was astounded at the change in the woman he had once loved. From the coolly calculating person of a few minutes ago, in the presence of her husband her whole personality seemed to shrivel into a frightened child’s. “He said he’d kill me. He had that gun and he made me tell him all that I knew. It wasn’t much. You know that. I don’t really know anything.”

“I knew those goddamn plaques were a bum idea. For God’s sake, who ever heard of a secret organization that gave its members fucking plaques to put on the wall? I should have had them all destroyed three years ago.”

“I don’t give a damn about your merit badges but I am going to kill you unless you start talking.” Cory extended the pistol until it pointed directly at Norm’s forehead. He braced his right wrist with his left. “Now!”

“Can I have a drink?”

“Ruth.”

“Right.” She scurried to the bar cart and mixed a drink with trembling hands.

“Did you stay in college long enough to ever have a history course, old buddy?”

“Don’t smart-ass me, Norm.”

“It’s a serious question. What I’m about to say won’t make much sense unless you have a vague idea concerning the historical currents in the world, both past and present.”

“I’m listening.”

“My father was exposed to the Committee in the late thirties. He had interests in several South American countries. He not only learned of the Committee but became active within its structure. In certain countries there is change but no change. Regimes come and regimes go. Presidents and prime ministers change, but all is the same. Bureaucracies, the land, wealth, institutions, all continue undisturbed. This pattern becomes quite evident if you study certain countries carefully.”

“Are you trying to tell me that some secret group controls this?”

“Yes and no. Nothing is quite so simplistic, old buddy. The group, as you call it, only wishes for certain things to remain sacrosanct: positions, wealth, a certain continuing hierarchy. The hierarchy that ultimately controls the destiny of all countries.”

“Composed of the wealthy.”

“Not only those with the most to protect, but the armed forces, the police authorities, and the bureaucracy. The Committee took its leaf from the enemy. Do you know how many Communists were with Mao in 1921?”

“A handful.”

“Less than a dozen. Do you realize how few initially went with Castro into the mountains?”

“I see your point.”

“Exactly. It proves what a few hard-core men who are highly disciplined can achieve. We have refined the process one step further, since we are hardly revolutionaries. We maintain three-man cells. The three are known only to one another.”

“There has to be control somewhere.”

“Control yes, exposure no. I know the men in my cell; the only other contact I have is with the man with the code name, Rook. This type of organization makes the Committee invulnerable. You might know me but no one else.”

“James and Pierce.”

Norm looked startled for a moment but quickly regained his composure. “Two minor police officers and a commodities broker. Now you see the dead end, Cory. That is why we are invincible.”

“You must know others.”

“Only where they are. They’re in the police forces, the FBI, CIA, the State Department, the army, and they are men of wealth and power who want to protect this country. They are a thousand strong, welded into three-man rings capable of enforcing their will on any aspect of this country. They are capable of using force in order to protect this country.”

“Formed by your father?”

“Yes. He returned to the States to spend the rest of his life, money, and energy forging the Committee. He did it well.”

“I’m beginning to see where I fit into this. Your group decided to eliminate the President, and I was to take the fall for the assassination. I was the dissatisfied ex-army officer, bitter over his father’s disgrace, who would protect the real killer and the real reason for the killing.”

“It seemed a good plan at the time, and a scenario we’ve used before. It would have worked well except for your inadvertent sighting of our man across the street. What in hell were you doing with a live round in the weapon, Cory?”

Cory ignored the question. “Why assassination?”

“He must be removed. Détente was bad enough, but Crescatt wants to crawl in bed with the bastards. He must be, will be, removed.”

“And the Vice-President?”

“He’s controlled by one of ours.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“Of course.”

“Who is Rook?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re lying.”

Norm smiled. “Hell, Cory, you can put pins under my fingernails. I can’t tell you something I don’t know. There is one possible way out for you.”

“Such as?”

“Remember the old adage, if you can’t beat them …”

“I’m wanted by every law-enforcement agency in this country.”

“Something could be arranged. I’m sure that Rook would find a spot for a man of your talents.”

The storm passed directly over the house. The day dimmed to murky light as rain pelted the roof.

“He’d probably want me to finish the job I aborted for you.”

“You’re already wanted for the attempt. Why not go all the way? You would have our guarantee that we’d take care of you afterwards.”

“Passport, money, a flight to South America?”

“Something like that.”

Cory leaned back in the chair, with the gun across his lap. Ruth walked toward him with a glass filled with ice in one hand and a whisky decanter in the other. “You know something, Norm? I don’t believe you.”

“It might be the best shot you’ve got. If you’ll pardon the pun.” Norm seemed more relaxed, as if certain he had reached Cory.

Cory had a single flashing thought. It suddenly seemed incongruous that Ruth would walk toward him with the whisky decanter. He turned toward her, but it was too late.

The blow from the heavy cut-glass decanter caught him across the side of the head. The force was sufficient to knock him across the side of the chair. He sprawled on the floor.

An underwater ballet moved in fluid slow motion. Quick flashing rings converged across his vision. Ruth still stood by the chair, holding the decanter neck with both hands as it swung back over her shoulder.

Norm catapulted from his chair. His mouth was a grim line as he moved across the room toward Cory.

He didn’t lose consciousness, although the black rings twisted into tighter and tighter concentric circles. He fired the revolver. The bullet passed harmlessly into the ceiling as a crack of thunder boomed over the house.

Norm changed direction and ran for the door. Ruth rushed after him and pulled the heavy paneled door shut after she left.

The rings turned red and obstructed his view. The pistol slipped from his fingers. He had to move. He had to stand. He pulled up his knees and pushed with both hands until he was on all fours. He fumbled for the gun. Reaching for a chair arm, he pulled himself up. He swayed erect.

The room rocked. The windows tilted to an obscene angle. Staggering across the floor to the desk, he fell across its surface as his hand tilted the phone receiver from its cradle.

He heard the click of dialing numbers from an extension in another part of the house. The clicking continued and then stopped when the dialer on the extension realized that a connection could not be made.

Cory’s head began to clear. Strength returned to his legs. The rings preambling probable unconsciousness began to fade.

Cory staggered across the room and reached for the door handle.

A shot boomed across the hall. Wood splintered near his waist as the projectile passed through the door into the far wall. He stepped aside and braced his back against the wall. Two more shots followed in quick sucession and blew wood splinters across the room.

He waited, counted to ten, and then threw the door open and flung himself onto the hall floor and rolled over twice in quick turns.

Norm was down the hall with his back to him, fumbling at the front door. Cory snapped two shots in his general direction and knew he had missed as Norm spun into the room to the right.

The darkness of the storm had turned the interior of the house into deep shadows. The rain had increased to a crescendo as lightning bolts cast intermittent flashes of illumination across the hall.

For a moment he wondered how Norm had obtained the heavy revolver he was using, and then remembered the gun room with its armory of weapons.

Cory lay on the floor with the pistol extended, ready to fire should Norm come back into the hall. He tried to remember the layout of the house. It was so many years ago, back to junior-high-school days, when they had tramped these halls with the busy dedication of small boys. He must remember.

The downstairs house layout flashed across his mind like a computer printout. When he fired at Norm near the front door, the other man had whirled into the room at his right. The dining room. A long pantry ran from the dining room back to the kitchen. In the kitchen there was another exit back to the hall directly behind Cory.

He was flanked. Without further conscious decision, Cory rolled over and through the door to the gun room. A quick burst of shots plowed across the carpeting in the hallway where he had lain only seconds before. Cory scrambled to his feet and pressed against the wall. He held the pistol tilted up, ready to fire or swing in any direction.

Across the room a series of windows looked out on an enclosed rear porch. Ruth Lewis, a tiny .25 caliber Beretta Jetfire clenched in her hand, walked slowly past the windows. Cory raised his pistol, steadied it, and let the normal motion of his arm swing with her as she tiptoed across the porch.

She stopped and turned until she faced him. They were less than twenty feet apart. Her eyes widened as she stared at his gun. She took a step backward and then another.

His finger tightened as the trigger squeeze began.

He lowered the gun until its menacing barrel pointed at the floor.

Their eyes met and held for a moment before she turned and ran from the porch.

A series of shots were fired through the door. Cory recognized the small pop-pop of a Beretta and the loud report of a heavy weapon, probably a .357 Magnum. A guncase along a rear wall shattered as several bullets pierced the glass.

The Magnum’s cylinders were undoubtedly empty by this time. There might be a chance for him to rush them. He took a step toward the door. Norm could have a reloader with him. If that were the case, he could insert new cartridges in a matter of seconds. Cory hesitated and let his hand fall away from the door handle.

It was time. It had to be now.

He jerked the door back against the wall and ran across the hall, into the living room, where they had talked earlier. Norm was dialing the phone. The Magnum dangled by his side.

Cory crouched and aimed. “Put the phone down. Don’t turn!”

Norm slowly lowered the phone. Ruth stood in the center of the room with the small automatic hanging uselessly from her fingers.

“Shoot him, Ruth,” Norm commanded his wife in a low voice.

She gave an unintelligible answer from the depths of her throat.

“Go ahead,” Norm insisted.

“Drop your weapon,” Cory said quietly.

“It’s a stand off, old buddy. You shoot me, and she shoots you.”

“That pop gun she’s holding is empty.”

“Mine isn’t.”

“You try and turn toward me and you’re dead.”

“What you say is true.” Norm’s fingers tightened on his weapon as it angled slowly up to point directly at his wife. “I can hit her without turning, Cory. Unless you want her dead, drop your gun.”

Both men’s guns erupted simultaneously. Both shots were accurate, as metal-jacketed projectiles tore into Ruth and Norm Lewis.

Cory stood over them as they died on the floor before him. Their eyes were glazed and unseeing before he could cross the few steps to stand over them. His pistol slipped from his fingers and thudded to the carpet.

He slowly turned and walked from the house.

CHAPTER 16

He made it to the outskirts of West Deerford before he had to pull the car off to the side of the road. He staggered across the shoulder, bent over knee-high grass, and was sick for a very long time. The thunderstorm was beginning to move onward, and clouds raced rapidly overhead. The vestiges of a light rain fell as he bent over with his hands on his knees.

Cory looked up at the sky and felt rain pelt against his face. “Oh, God!” The cry was torn from him and uttered in a voice he hardly recognized. He must get back to Ginny. Only she could give him surcease from these events which seemed to increase with such horrifying velocity.

He stumbled to the car and threw it in gear. The tires skidded on slick, rain-covered grass. The rear wheels spun for a moment before the vehicle fishtailed out onto the highway.

He had driven ten miles toward Lantern City before he realized that he was crying.

In a warm and secret part of her she awaited his return. She spent most of the day in a lazy state, letting the hours tick slowly by.

She stood and brushed sand off her legs. In one sweeping motion she gathered the large beach towel and flapped it in the air. She tucked the towel under her arm and began to walk back to the cottage.

She was nearly to the patio when she saw them. Two men came around opposite sides of the house. The one on the right was a large man with bulky shoulders. The second was thinner and wore tweedy clothes. They each held guns.

She turned and ran for the water and heard them pounding after her. She reached the water’s edge, where small wavelets lapped at her ankles and then at her knees as she pushed onward. She heard a man’s heavy breathing as he splashed behind her. If she could only reach deep water, she could swim and outdistance them. She plunged ahead.

The tide was out! It was another seventy-five yards to deep water. She glanced over her shoulder. The larger of the two was nearly upon her. She turned back toward the sea and ran.

The man’s shoulder caught her in the small of the back and knocked her, face down, in the water. She floundered in the shallows. Her arms flailed as she fought to regain her footing. He put his hand around her waist and lifted her up and walked back toward shore.

The second man stood above the waterline. His gun had disappeared, and he lit a pipe with studied nonchalance. “Take her inside,” was his quiet command.

Her hands were bound with double lengths of clothesline, and she was forced into a straight-backed chair.

“Where is he?” was the first question.

“I don’t know.”

Her head snapped to the side from the force of the stinging slap across her cheek. She shook her head to clear the black specks that converged across her vision. Her head snapped to the opposite side as he backhanded her across the other cheek.

She felt a thin trickle of blood seep from her nose and drip down over her bare stomach and thighs.

“Where?” the voice asked in a dispassionate tone.

“Don’t know.”

“You’ve got ten minutes,” the man with the pipe said as he walked from the kitchen.

Ginny’s eyes widened as the large man flipped on a gas burner under a front eye of the stove. He carefully selected a long fork with a wooden handle from the utensil drawer and placed the prongs over the jutting blue flame. He turned to face her with arms akimbo. “Well?”

She shook her head in violent denial.

Wilton James sucked on his pipe and looked across the wetlands by the side of the house. A seagull swooped down and dipped its head quickly into the shallows and then flew upward in graceful flight. The bird carried something aloft in its beak. He watched, with interest, as the gull rose to the height of fifty feet and then let the object fall to the ground.

The clamshell hit a large rock and shattered. The gull dove earthward and hopped over to the broken shell. Its beak pecked again and again into the shattered clam. James wondered how many thousands of generations of gulls it had taken to develop that instinctual corollary for survival.

Sergeant Pierce cleared his throat. James turned to face his subordinate. “Well?”

“He’s gone to Deerford to talk to Atkins, of the FBI.”

“That’s already taken care of.”

“Then out to the Hunt Club to see what he can find there.”

James glanced at his watch. “What time did he leave?”

“Day before yesterday.”

“Damn!”

“She’s sure he’s coming back, but I don’t know.”

“If he has half a grain of sense he’ll keep going until he hits the Pacific Ocean.”

“He could be there already.”

“But she thinks he’s coming back,” James mused. “I assume they’re sleeping together?”

“I didn’t ask her.” Sergeant Pierce turned toward the kitchen. “I’ll ask her. She’s very cooperative now.”

“Forget it. I know they are.” He glanced at his watch again. “We’ll stay here tonight in case he returns. There’s always that chance.”

Cory seemed to awaken from a fugue state as the car approached Lantern City He was not conscious of having driven the last twenty-five miles. He shook his head as if to orient himself. His thoughts were still a jumbled mass of emotions and visual images that clicked by in a confused montage.

Over and over again he fired at Norm. The man’s dying reflex action pulled the trigger of the pistol—it fired, and Ruth died. Over and over again husband and wife, old friend and lover, died.

He wanted the sanctuary of the cottage. He wanted to throw off his clothes and walk to the shower to wash the stink of death from his body. Ginny would have a drink waiting. They would go to bed and would lie with hands and bodies entwined. Then the violent pictures would disappear.

He needed her.

He turned down the secluded lane that led toward the wetlands and the small house on the beach.

She lay bound on the kitchen floor and quietly cried. The burns on her legs and thighs hurt, but there was a deeper pain. She had told them everything she knew. She had revealed Cory to them, and now they would lay in wait with their guns, to shoot him when he parked the car and walked toward the cottage.

The pain, hurt, and deceptions of a lifetime surged through her. Memories of an almost-forgotten husband rose and faded in rapid sequence. The hurts by other men in other places and other times were now culminated in the physical abuse by the men waiting in the living room.

She strained against the rope that bound her wrists behind her back. The knots were professionally tied. The more she struggled, the harder the binds cut her flesh.

She levered herself to her feet and hobbled over to the stove. She wanted to moan in pain, but clenched her teeth. Tears welled in her eyes and ran over her cheeks, God, it hurt!

She turned her back to the stove and pressed back against the dials. Her fingers, with only inches of movement available, turned the knob to the right on the front burner. Let it light. Please let it light.

She heard a soft puff as escaping gas around the burner eye was ignited by the pilot light. She bent forward until her hands were over the edge of the stove. She inched her hands back over the lit burner. She felt the heat of the burning gas as she guided her hand over the flame.

She had to pull back as fire seared her skin. She pushed her wrists back again, trying to hold the rope binding her hands, over the flame. The stench of burning flesh assailed her nostrils. The pain made her nearly faint. She kept her wrists over the burning eye until the rope parted and she fell forward in a dead faint.

Cory parked the car thirty feet from the house and opened the door. He had started to walk around the front of the car and go toward the door when he saw her.

A shower of glass preceded her body as she dove through the large window on the rear sun porch. She stumbled and fell to her knees by the side of the house.

Tiny flecks of red speckled her bare shoulders and arms, where minute shards of glass had cut. There were long, ugly red welts on her legs and thighs. Her hands and wrists seemed to be incongruously covered with what he at first thought were red gloves. He realized with horror that her hands were bleeding profusely. Lengths of charred rope dangled from her wrist.

She recovered her balance and faced him. Her mouth contorted in pain. “Run! They’re here!”

Cory dove behind the car as the first two shots reverberated over the quiet beach. He saw Ginny spin and fall. Two more shots sputtered into the sand near his face.

The two men were at opposite ends of the long living-room window. Their pistol barrels protruded through broken panes of glass as they crouched near the floor, with their weapons braced on the sill. If they had not been distracted by Ginny’s yell … if he had been a few feet closer … if they had not shot at her first …

Cory couldn’t see Ginny. She lay in the grass by the side of the house, removed from view by a small hillock. They had shot her. Another death in the bizarre conspiracy.

Cory slid into the car without showing his head above the dashboard. He turned on the ignition and pressed down on the accelerator. The car jumped ahead and careened across the small yard, toward the long front window.

Their firing increased in rapidity as the car lurched toward the front of the house. Their bullets shattered the windshield, blew a tire, and smashed harmlessly into the engine block and fire wall.

He was able to accelerate the car to forty in the brief space. The car hit the house slightly to the right of the long window and crushed Sergeant Pierce.

The front half of the vehicle sliced through the light construction of the cottage. Its front wheels protruded midway through the living room. The body of the police sergeant was fatally pinned beneath the undercarriage. Wilton James staggered in aimless circles in the undemolished portion of the room. He held both hands against his face where splinters of wood had pierced his cheek.

Cory found the detective’s gun on the floor, checked the cylinders to see that a bullet remained, and walked toward the groaning man.

“Don’t, Cory.”

He turned to see her standing outside, near the rear of the car. Her hands clutched her side, where the shot that had knocked her down had creased her ribs.

He stepped through the wreckage and went to her. His arms went around her, and she whimpered against his shoulder. Her cries were the short, curt mews of an injured animal. He examined her body.

Burn welts creased her thighs and legs. Her right eye was swollen and rapidly turning black from the fall when she was shot. The bullet that grazed her side left a furrowed crease the length of her ribs.

“My God, Ginny! What did they do to you?”

“We must leave. Now, please. Let’s just leave.”

He turned from her and walked over to where Wilton James sat on the floor. The detective’s hands were pressed to his face. Blood oozed between his fingers. A long splinter of wood pierced his cheek and still protruded between thumb and forefinger.

Cory stood over the wounded men and thumbed back the hammer of the revolver.

The detective’s moans stopped. “Is that you, Williams?”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to kill me.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t, Cory.” Her hand gently pushed the gun aside. She was right. He couldn’t fire. There had been too much. Too many had died. He turned away from the wounded detective.

They would take the detective’s car. He tore out the phone line and gently helped Ginny to lie across the car’s rear seat.

Wilton James staggered from the house. “You’re making a mistake, Williams. You shouldn’t let me live, because I swear, so help me God, that I will kill you.”

Cory put the car in gear and turned down the drive, toward Main Street.

CHAPTER 17

Ginny moaned and tossed feverishly on the narrow bed. He sat on the opposite twin bed and placed a damp washcloth on her forehead. She was warm, too warm. He touch-judged her fever at between 102 and 104 degrees. She needed medical attention.

He had covered her burns and bruises with salve purchased from a drugstore. The treatment seemed to provide little relief, but it might stop infection.

He would watch her through the night. If the fever rose past its present spike, he would bathe her with alcohol. He would do whatever he could.

It had taken an inordinate length of time to get from the Connecticut shore to Springfield, Massachusetts. Once again he had felt the necessity to keep to back roads. It would not have taken Wilton James long to notify the authorities. Every police officer in five states would be on the lookout for the stolen car.

Tomorrow, assuming Ginny was better, he would have to get rid of James’s car and purchase a cheap second-hand model with their short supply of money.

He turned back to Ginny and replaced the washcloth with a fresh damp one.

President Orville Crescatt fingered the yellow legal pad containing his speech notes and leaned back in the Brumby rocker. When he sat in the rocking chair he often thought of Jack Kennedy. It was an unhealthy musing that might eventually lead him to sleep in Lincoln’s bed. He shook his head and looked out the window, over the White House lawn.

Tomorrow at dawn he would board the helicopter that would be idling at the rear of the house and fly to Air Force One for the trip to Chicago.

Chicago had to be a good speech. He bent back to his notes. The Midwest was the heartland. It had been his political base. Yes, Chicago was a very important speech.

He had chosen his political trail carefully. Personal money had never been a problem. His grandfather’s homesteaded acres had increased tenfold with his father’s Depression additions. Now rich Nebraska farms under long-term lease provided an adequate and stable income.

He had obtained his doctorate in political science, and while still in his twenties had run for the state house of representatives. At thirty-two he began the first of three terms in Congress, then back to his native state for a gubernatorial term before he ran for the U.S. Senate. He had nurtured and built his political base carefully until it melded into a combination of La Follette populism and Midwestern conservatism. He had purposely waited until the beginning of his second presidential term before announcing his “Crusade.”

The Crusade hadn’t sat well with his original constituency, and God only knew it didn’t sit well with Congress.

He placed his notes on a table and picked up a copy of the Constitution of the United States. He read the order of impeachment:

“… Conviction of Treason, Bribery, or other high Crimes and Misdemeanors.”

They would have a hell of a time on the high erimes, he thought, but there was a gathering storm of treason baiters.

He knew he was right just as he knew the acrimonious and bitter fight it would take to prevail; but fight he would. The Crusade was not only an ideological belief he felt deeply, but he was firmly convinced that it was a necessity for world survival.

He must prevail.

The phone booth was by the side of the motel. Its interior light had long ago been smashed by vandals. A nearby street lamp cast enough illumination for Cory to dial.

“Operator, please connect me with the White House.”

“In Washington, D.C.?”

“Yes, Operator.” He briefly wondered what other White Houses there were.

There was a series of clicks before the operator’s computerlike voice returned. “The number and area code of the White House is 202—456—1414. Please make a note of the number and deposit two dollars and fifteen cents.”

Cory deposited the money.

“White House.” The switchboard voice was crisp and efficient.

“Let me speak to the President, please.”

“One moment, please.”

Another delay then a brisk male voice. “Ron Sawyer here. Can I help you?”

“President Crescatt, please.”

“Who is calling.”

“It’s an emergency.”

“Can I have your name and number for a call back, sir?”

“It’s a matter of life and death.”

“Your name and number, please.”

Cory hung up. It was a damn fool thing even to have attempted. He walked back to the motel room and was halfway there when he broke into raucous laughter. The call had been an impulsive gesture done without forethought. It was obviously ludicrous. The President undoubtedly received a dozen crank calls a day. He imagined that the man named Sawyer was a Secret Service agent. The chances of making direct contact with the President were nil.

If he wasn’t wanted by the authorities, he could have called Senator Forrest. The Senator was an old friend of his father’s and had visited the house many times when Cory was younger. Out of nostalgia, the Senator might have arranged a short interview with Crescatt. That was impossible now. Cory was wanted by every police authority in the country.

There had to be a way.

He unlocked the motel-room door and entered its dim interior. He had left the bathroom light on, and it cast a single bright swatch across the center of the floor. He bent over Ginny. She had fallen into a deep sleep. Her breathing was regular, and when he put his hand on her forehead he felt a slightly cooler flush.

The fever had broken, and she was resting well. He felt relieved, switched on the television, and pulled the room’s single easy chair close to it. He turned the sound down and flipped the dial to catch a newscast to see if there was any mention of them.

An image swam into focus.

“This is station WKOC, Boston, and the show is State of the State. This is a weekly interview program concerned with participants in the week’s news. Our guest this evening is Elizabeth Crescatt, known to all who follow the First Family as Liz.”

The picture dissolved to a closeup of an attractive young woman whom Cory judged to be in her early twenties. She smiled into the camera. It was a warm and impish smile. Her deep blue eyes seemed to twinkle. Long blond hair was brushed to a sheen, down her back. She was the epitome of a corn-fed Midwestern girl. She appeared to be the kind of girl who was always a cheerleader at Big Ten football games.

Cory reached for the dial and was about to switch channels when their eyes seemed to meet. Liz Crescatt looked directly into the camera until the shot dissolved to a long shot of three newsmen at a long table in front of the President’s daughter.

“Tell us, Miss Crescatt, why did you choose to attend college in Boston instead of your native state?” The reporter’s Boston accent was obvious, as was the condescending smirk to the otherwise innocuous question.

Liz Crescatt smiled. “Well, I guess I just like Harvard men … Tufts men … BU and BC men, and …” Her features abruptly switched to a serious cast. “Commonwealth University, which I attend, has one of the most prestigious schools of foreign affairs in the country. Since my interests lie in that area, my choice was almost mandatory.”

The camera switched to the second interrogator. “Do you agree with your father’s so-called ‘Crusade,’ Miss Crescatt?”

“Of course I do.” Her reply was snapped at the newsman. “I wish eventually to raise children. I wish, someday, to hold the children of my children. If we do not have a working accommodation with the rest of the world, we are doomed.”

“But is it not true that members of your father’s party disagree violently with him?”

“And there are members of the opposition who back my father. This is not a partisan question. It is a question of world survival.”

Though questioning continued, it quickly turned to gossip-column material.

Did she agree that premarital sex was not immoral?

She agreed.

That comment would make the news wires, while her staunch defense of her father’s Crusade would not.

Did she see her father often?

Not as much as she liked, but they would have dinner together in a few days, when he arrived in Boston for a speech at Faneuil Hall.

Cory did not hear the remainder of the interview although the television set remained on. A concept slowly formed. It might be his only chance.

At ten, Agent Ron Sawyer was relieved from telephone duty in the small office near the White House switchboard. He handed his shift log sheets to his replacement and shook his head.

“It’s the usual. A couple of nuts, three kids, and a drunk. I checked two that we should follow. A couple of calls were disconnected, and I couldn’t get a number or trace.”

The other agent nodded and took the list. He waved Ron out of the office.

Ron Sawyer looked like the football player he had been. A modest college career and a year with a semipro team had capped his days of far-from-glory playing. He had applied for and been accepted into the Secret Service after a hitch as a junior officer in Army CID.

He found the work both dull and exciting. The hours of waiting, forcing himself to be alert, were tempered with the knowledge that he was close to the center of power in the country.

He had received a depressing new assignment that morning. The “powers that be” had given him a tour on the kiddie patrol—a dull month of duty in Boston, guarding the President’s daughter.

Early tomorrow he would catch a shuttle flight to New York and then another to Boston. By five tomorrow he would be fully ensconced, in charge of the well-being and safety of an impetuous young woman.

It was two days before Ginny was fully awake and her eyes were clear without the haze of a high fever. She smiled up at Cory. “If I don’t get something to eat, I am going to start with your forearm and proceed up the rest of your body.”

“Give me ten minutes. There’s a diner up the road I can walk to.”

“I’ll give you five.”

It actually took Cory fourteen minutes to return with the takeout order. The styrofoam plates were piled high with scrambled eggs, ham, toasted English, and a side order of pancakes. Cups of steaming coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice completed the order.

Ginny attacked the food. She balanced a plate on her lap and ate ravenously, without speaking. He sat on the other bed and watched her with a bemused look.

“I think breakfast is the best buy in America today.”

“Uh huh,” she mumbled through a bite of pancake.

“How would you like to go to Boston?”

She looked at him with an arched eyebrow. “Is it safe?”

“Probably not. But I think I have a plan.”

She continued eating, more slowly now that her initial burst of appetite had been appeased. “Tell me about it.”

“As soon as you feel well enough, we’ll buy a car.”

“We seem to do a lot of that lately.”

“Then, while you follow me, I’ll take James’s car to the Hartford-Springfield airport and dump it in the long-term parking lot. It may not be discovered for a week or more. When it is, we can only hope that they think we hopped a plane for somewhere.”

“I’m with you on that. Then we drive to Boston?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“I have to meet with the President.”

“President of what?”

“The United States. He’s going to be in Boston in a few days.”

“Okay,” she said, and drew the word out. “We go to Boston, talk to the Prez, and then hop a boat to Brazil and live happily ever after. Nothing to it.” She swung her legs out of bed and grimaced as her thighs touched the side. “When do we begin this crazy plan?”

“As soon as you’re up to it.”

“That’s nuts, Cory. You know that? They’re not going to let you within a hundred yards of the President without shooting you dead.”

“I know. That’s why the approach has to be through an intermediary.”

“I’ll buy that. Like who?”

“What do you know about the President’s daughter?”

“Liz Crescatt?”

“Yes. Have you read about her at all?”

“Sure. Hasn’t everyone? At one time or another she’s been on the cover of most of the women’s magazines.”

“What do you know about her?”

“Hey, wait a minute. There’s method behind your madness. Liz Crescatt goes to school in the Boston area.”

“Now you see it. She attends Commonwealth University, in Beantown.”

“Okay. But isn’t the President’s family guarded night and day by the Secret Service just so people like you don’t get near them?”

“I’m sure they are, but it’s going to be easier to get to Liz than it would be her father. Tell me what you know about her.”

“Well, she’s young and pretty, and I guess you could call her impulsive. Evidently not flaky, but sort of filled with hijinks, like a lot of girls her age. She’s supposed to worship her father and agree with him, but she’s got a very modern viewpoint of the new morality and things like that. That’s what the gossip columns say, anyway.”

Cory stood up and examined himself in the wide mirror bolted above the dresser. His beard was full. Cornstarch in his hair aged him ten years. He felt sure that it would be difficult for anyone, going by old photographs, to be positive of identification. It was a risk they would have to take.

“Do you have a plan?” she asked from bed.

“No, not yet. But there’s got to be a way.”

“They are going to shoot you, Cory.” She said it without melodrama, but with a faraway, detached sense of loss.

CHAPTER 18

They purchased a 1972 Chrysler Imperial LeBaron. It had electrically controlled windows, cruise control, and a dozen other superfluous gadgets. It was a huge behemoth that got ten miles to the gallon and drove like a top. They took the Mass Pike from Springfield toward Boston, a hundred miles distant.

As with all turnpike driving, the trip was dull. At times Cory had a sense of déjà vu. The highway was like two dozen other interstates in the country and could barely be differentiated from a roadway in North Carolina or Utah.

“I’ve never been to Boston,” Ginny said.

“How could you grow up in Deerford and never go to Boston?”

“I don’t know. I never cared for the Red Sox.” He laughed. “You ever see the President?” She hesitated a moment. “I mean, besides that motorcade in Deerford.”

Cory well remembered the days and weeks that he had sat in a congressional hearing room while Orville Crescatt attacked his father. “Yes,” he answered softly. “I’ve seen him quite a few times.”

The speedometer inched toward seventy, and he eased off on the accelerator. A speeding arrest would be the dumbest of errors under the circumstances. He glanced sideways at a thoughtful Ginny.

“Do you have a plan?” she asked. “How are we going to arrange our little tête-à-tête with Liz Crescatt? I mean, you can’t just walk up to her.”

“I’ll think of something,” he replied as the skyline of Boston swam into view.

As they moved through the Newton suburbs, the traffic load increased on the narrowing highway. The Prudential Center was directly in front of them, while the Charles River and Cambridge were on the left. Immediately to their right was the mile-long urban campus of Commonwealth University. It was a sprawling school housed in an assortment of buildings. Commonwealth was one of the largest private universities in the country, and its very size would grant them the anonymity they would need.

The Chrysler passed into the tunnel below the Pru Center, and Cory gave a turn signal for the off ramp.

Ron Sawyer looked at the detail schedule attached to the clipboard on his lap and mentally computed the cost of the kiddie detail he would head for the next thirty days. The people of the United States spent over $800,000 a year for the protection of the President’s daughter.

There were three shifts a day of three men apiece. These agents were GS-12 Step Two earning $25,000 per year. On each shift two men were constantly at the side of Liz Crescatt. They walked beside her on campus, and in class, one sat by her side while a second patrolled the corridor outside the classroom. The third man on each shift was either in the apartment or holding the limousine at some convenient place. There were four additional men for weekend and relief duty. The personnel totaled thirteen agents, one armored limousine, and a number of closed-circuit television cameras to monitor and protect Liz Crescatt’s apartment.

Immediately upon his arrival in Boston, Ron made a survey of security around the brownstone containing Liz’s apartment. The Service had taken over the ground floor and installed closed-circuit TV cameras on the outside of the building, both front and rear, and in all interior hallways. While Liz was in her apartment, these cameras, monitored by an agent on the ground floor, were constantly swiveling in their relentless probing.

The limo was parked outside the building, in full view of a TV camera. It was periodically checked for tampering, and several secretly installed devices under the hood, rear, and beneath the dashboard of the large Caddy would instantly warn of any intrusion. Two Boston uniformed police officers were on foot patrol on each side of the street. They kept a constant surveillance of nearby buildings and rooftops.

It was as secure as any operation could be. Ron knew that Liz Crescatt was safe from any casual attempt on her life or any abduction. There was always the fear of a large-scale assault by terrorists. In this scenario, a large van would pull up in front of the building and disgorge a dozen people armed with automatic weapons and grenades. They would forcibly effect an entrance into the building by sacrificing some of their members until they fought their way to Liz.

The Service had operational orders for reaction to this type of attack, and only Ron and his relief man were aware of the top-secret memo that dictated instructions for reaction in such an eventuality. It was obvious to the security forces of the United States that the closest blood relative to the President could not be taken … alive. It would be Ron’s duty to fulfill this mandate if it ever became necessary. He tried not to think of this possibility.

He finished the week’s scheduling and tacked it on the bulletin board of the agents’ apartment. He scanned the assignments a final time. It all worked out. The shifts allowed Rackman to have a free weekend to be with his girl. Everything was simple enough if they only had the complete cooperation of their subject.

It was a well-known fact in the Service that Liz Crescatt was a handful. On at least three occasions in the past she had playfully eluded her agent escort and remained secreted for twelve hours before deciding to return to the White House.

The agents on duty during those incidents had been transferred to other responsibilities. The final transfer of agents seemed to subdue Liz. It was as if she felt guilty over harming the careers of dedicated men.

Ron Sawyer swore to himself that such a thing would not happen while he was in charge of kiddie duty.

They checked into a small residential hotel on Commonwealth Avenue. Cory parked the LeBaron in an underground garage and joined Ginny in the small room.

“The presidential suite it is not,” she said.

He looked around the square room. It was furnished in early American Hotel: a bulky nondescript dresser, lumpy bed, and a tiny kitchen area hidden behind a peeling screen. “It’ll do.”

They went their separate ways for the afternoon. Ginny took an MTA trolley downtown to do some needed shopping. They were in dire need of clothing and toilet articles. Cory gave her exact instructions for the purchase of their costumes.

He walked four blocks to the main branch of the Boston Public Library. In the reference room he checked the newspaper indexes and requested the microfilm reels he needed.

The local Boston papers had given extensive coverage to Liz Crescatt’s attending Commonwealth University. He quickly skimmed the papers for facts.…

Liz had transferred from Georgetown after her sophomore year. She attended Commonwealth her junior year and then took a leave of absence a year ago to help her father campaign. She had returned to complete her senior year and had a small apartment on Commonwealth Avenue. The Globe listed her address and Cory was startled to see that it was only a few blocks from the room they had rented.

He examined Liz’s photographs carefully.

They made careful love. The burns on Ginny’s legs were still tender, but the marks on her face were beginning to clear. The judicious use of makeup would hide any further evidence of her trauma from all but the most observant.

They lay next to each other on the bed. She ran her index finger over his chest in small twirling motions. “What now?”

Cory slid from bed and began to open the packages she had bought at Filene’s department store. There was a light sport coat he had suggested, with a button-down shirt and chino pants. He put on the clothing and picked up the small attaché case she had purchased. He examined himself in the mirror.

‘Yes, it worked. He looked like an aging grad student, or a teacher. The beard helped. The attaché case was perfect. “Now you.”

Hers was the costume of a student. She had tried to match the clothing of a hundred young women they had observed in their drive up Commonwealth Avenue, past the university. She dressed carefully, occasionally grimacing as she pulled the slacks over the still-vivid welts on her legs. She brushed her hair back and turned to face him. “Well?”

“You look fine.”

She faced the mirror with a hint of sadness. “I never went to college. I married that jerk during my last year of high school.”

“Never too late.”

“This isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I considered going back to school. What am I supposed to do tomorrow?”

“Remember the deli I pointed out when we drove by the school?”

“The one with the sign in the window, advertising New-York-style lox and bagels?”

“Right. There’s a phone booth on the wall near the window. ‘We’ll have to get its number. We’ll use it to keep in touch.”

“Basically, you want me to follow Liz Crescatt?”

“Yes. I want a list of her classes and a complete summary of her schedule. Also, she may have certain habits or patterns. Does she eat in the student union, or a local restaurant? Do you notice her talking to anyone? Any information will be helpful.”

“And the Secret Service will be with her?”

“You can count on it.”

By eight the next morning Cory was walking toward the apartment of Elizabeth Crescatt. Ginny had already called with the phone number of the pay phone at the deli. She would dawdle over coffee until he called her back.

He had borrowed dogs from three of the older women residents in the hotel. They seemed grateful for his offer to walk the animals. The dachsund, Pekingese, and Welsh corgi strained at their leashes as he walked down Commonwealth Avenue.

When he approached the block containing the apartment he saw a uniformed cop on either side of the wide street. They ambled along opposite sidewalks, constantly looking up at rooftops and windows. It was a quick scan for snipers.

A long dark limousine with government plates was parked in front of 1210. A man in a business suit sat behind the wheel and idly smoked a long cigarette. He seemed to be scanning passersby.

Cory crossed the street and walked along the grassy median that separated the two lanes of the avenue. When he was abreast of 1210 he let the impatient dogs sniff a tree.

An unobtrusive camera was mounted over the doorway of 1210. Its compact body rotated slowly back and forth as its lens swept the sidewalk and stairs of the brownstone.

Cory was sure there would be other cameras mounted in the rear and interior of the building. And, somewhere inside, an agent would be monitoring those cameras.

The dogs strained at their leashes as a young woman exited from 1210 and got into the limousine. She was followed by two older men in sports coats. The car slid from the curb and headed west, toward the university.

Eight minutes later, Cory was back in the hotel after he had returned the dogs to their owners. He dialed the pay phone in the deli.

The phone was answered on the first ring by Ginny’s low “Hello.”

“She left a few minutes ago.”

He could imagine Ginny turning to look out the window that faced Commonwealth Avenue. “I see the car,” she said in a minute. “They’re stopping in front of the College of Liberal Arts. A no-parking zone, yet.” She hung up.

She learns fast, he thought. She would be out of the deli and on her way across the street to the College of Liberal Arts. The books and notebook she carried made her one of the many thousands of students at the large university.

Ron Sawyer did not like crowds. It was an odd obsession, since much of his professional life was spent in crowds. It was his job to inspect, observe, and protect prominent men and women from the dangers of crowds and those kooks that might hide in them.

A college crowd was worse than most. The usual profiles of possible assassins were useless since they didn’t work here. Lots of men had long hair. Lots of women looked like members of fanatic Trotskyite groups or Maoist terror cells. You couldn’t get a handle on any of them.

Security had doubled since the attempt in Connecticut by Cory Williams. The idiots there had allowed the man to escape, not once, but twice. A highly trained marksman who seemed determined to harm the president was loose in the country.

A female student brushed by. Sawyer unconsciously gripped Liz’s elbow. She turned to look at him curiously.

“Something the matter?” she asked.

He shook his head as the woman continued past him. Her brown hair had several wisps trailing over her forehead. His trained eye detected a faint trace of makeup on her cheek and around her eyes. The makeup covered the last vestige of a massive bruise.

The woman had been beaten sometime in the near past. There was a hint of familiarity about her. He automatically catalogued the hundreds of photographs agents were constantly examining. Who was this woman?

She disappeared around a bend in the corridor.

“What is it?” Liz Crescatt asked again.

“Nothing.” They turned into the first class—language lab in intermediate Russian. Rackman accompanied Liz inside while Ron took up a position in the hall outside the room. He yawned. Tomorrow he would go into the class and let Rackman stay in the hallway.

The floor of their small room was a snowstorm of paper. Cory sat on the edge of the bed with his arms dangling between his knees. Ginny stood looking down at their notes with a sense of bewilderment. She brushed back a wisp of hair. “What does it add up to?”

Cory shook his head. “An impossible situation.” He bent over to gather their notes into a stack. He paper-clipped them together and placed them inside the Commonwealth University catalogue. Impatiently, he took them out again to read through their results for the tenth time.

“There’s got to be an answer in there,” she said.

“Apartment—first floor occupied by Secret Service agents; there is closed-circuit TV throughout the dwelling which is constantly monitored. Travels by government limo with one agent driver and two other agents present. In class, one agent next to her, another in the hall outside. Lunches at student union with a girl friend. Agents at a table nearby. Goes swimming most afternoons. One agent in water, the other walking perimeter of the pool.”

“What about the dressing room? She has to put on her swim suit somewhere.”

“She changes in the coaches’ room, which has a private room and shower. The agents wait outside the room’s only door. No one is admitted. She returns home in the late afternoon, attends an occasional movie, or goes out to dinner with friends. The agents are constantly present.”

“If we could get to know her socially?”

“I’ll lay you ten to one that if she becomes friends with anyone they run an FBI general agency security check. Besides, we don’t have the time. The President will be here soon.”

Ginny seemed close to tears. “It’s hopeless, Cory. There is no way we can get to Liz Crescatt and convince her to arrange a meeting with her father. It just isn’t possible, given our circumstances.”

Cory nodded in agreement. “I have the feeling you’re right.” He slammed the notes down and then snatched them up again. “Class schedule,” he read. “Monday and Thursday morning, language lab at eight in intermediate Russian. Nine, a survey of Mid-Eastern foreign policy. Eleven A.M. until noon, a course in modern American drama.” He threw the papers across the room. “Screw the notes.”

Ginny’s face lit up. “How about we write her a letter?”

“I can compose it now. ‘Dear President’s Daughter. Although I am wanted by everyone in the country for trying to kill your dad, I am really not a bad guy and want to save the Republic.’ Can you imagine how she’d go for that? I want a face-to-face meeting. It has to be that way so I can convince her.”

“We’re stuck, Cory. It’s time to admit that.”

Cory reached for the phone to dial his brother’s number in Wellesley. He hesitated. Steve’s phone would be tapped. There was no question in his mind that they would have men monitoring his brother’s phone on a full-time basis. The trace would begin as soon as he said hello.

Ginny picked up a pad and began to make notes. “There are alternatives.”

“Like what?”

“Like what we do when we admit that there’s no way to see the President.”

“What have you got down so far?”

“Option number one, and the one that I prefer is, we forget the whole damn thing and get some fancy false identity and drop out of sight—forever.”

“And what am I supposed to do with the rest of my life?”

“Live with me.” She smiled.

“And work? What sort of job can I get without a background?”

“We’d find an answer to that, Cory. It would certainly be easier than trying to get to the most well-guarded man in the world.”

“What other great thoughts have you jotted?”

“Follow other clues. Like that guy in Toledo they call Rook.”

“That’s the only clue, and I even went so far as to look at a Toledo phone directory in the library. Not surprisingly, there isn’t any Mr. or Mrs. Rook listed. I didn’t think there would be.”

“What about the man you shot? The man who was really trying to kill the President? If you’d identify him you might have something.”

Cory nodded. “I’ve thought that one over too. I think he was carefully selected—a man whose prints weren’t on file, a man who could drop from sight without being missed, who could be bought, and who only had remote contact with one member of the Committee of One Thousand.”

Ginny crumpled her note paper and threw it across the room toward a wastebasket. She missed and turned to him in angry frustration. “Why bother with Crescatt?”

“They’re going to kill him.”

“He’s well guarded. People have been trying to kill the President for a long time. Most of the time they don’t succeed.”

“That’s because most of the time they are single malcontents involved in a single irrational act. What’s involved here is a well-integrated and complex conspiracy.”

“Even if you were able to get to him and warn him, what good would it do?”

“It might make him aware of what’s happening. It would point out that he had to take extreme care in everything he did, and surround himself with trustworthy people.”

“I don’t see how you’re going to do that even if you could talk to him.”

“I have to, Gin. He’s got to be made aware of what’s going on and how dangerous the Committee is.”

“Okay, then.” She shuffled through the notes and began to giggle. “Hey, you know. The answer’s simple. All you have to do is take the place of one of her professors. You can lecture to ol’ Liz.”

“Sure.” Cory imitated a pompous professorial tone. “And now, class, your guest lecturer today is Cory Williams, would-be assassin. Will all Secret Service agents remain in their seats while we proceed with today’s lecture on the danger to the Republic?”

“Can I have your autograph?”

“As soon as they take off the handcuffs.”

“We’re getting silly.”

“Or punch drunk.”

“Which class do you wish to teach, sir?”

“Why not intermediate Russian, since I know less about that than anything else?”

“Eight in the morning on Tuesdays and Thursdays at the College of Liberal Arts.”

“Why not?” Cory began to mix a drink from the bottle on the dresser. He clunked ice from the refrigerator’s small freezer into a glass. His movements slowed and stopped. He slowly turned to look at Ginny. “That Russian course has a language lab.”

“And a lecture on …”

He waved his hand. “I’m not concerned with the lecture. You passed the room where the lab was held?”

“I even peeked inside.”

“It’s filled with little cubicles. There are soundproof boards on three sides of the cubicle?”

“You’ve been there.”

“I had a Spanish lab when I was in school. Everyone puts on earphones.”

“Uh huh.”

“The instructor sits at the far end of the room.”

“In sort of a booth like the DJs have at a disco place. There’s a problem, Cory. The agent goes in there with her and sits next to her.”

“In the next cubicle?”

“Yep. And he can see over the top partition if he wants to. The guy that went in with her the other day was a big one. In fact, they’re all big. They don’t look like they have much of a sense of humor.”

Cory enveloped her in his arms. “Gin, honey, I think we’ve got it.”

She ran her hand over the nape of his neck. “Terrific. Tell me about it sometime.”

They fell back on the bed. If the burns on her legs hurt, she didn’t notice.

CHAPTER 19

Cory lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The service revolver he had taken from Wilton James lay on the bed, inches from his fingers. His palms were moist with tension. Ginny had been gone for two hours. It was a rotten thing to ask her to do, but there was no other choice. It had to be this way.

The phone rang, and he snatched it from the cradle before the completion of the ring.

“Exactly what is tenure?” Ginny asked without preamble. There was a great deal of conversational hum in the background.

“You’re supposed to be talking sex—not tenure, for God’s sake!”

“That’s all he wants to talk about. You better give me a quick lesson if I’m going to appear anything but a dunce.”

Cory explained. “After a probationary period at a school, a teacher is either offered tenure or not. If he isn’t, it’s time to move on and try another college.”

“So what is it?”

“It’s almost like a job guarantee that protects teachers from arbitrary dismissal.”

“A union deal?”

“Sort of. It’s rather important to a young teacher, particularly nowadays, when the country seems to grow Ph.D.s like mushrooms.”

“Over and out,” she said, and the phone was dead in his hand. He hung up and lay back to wait.

He felt like a pimp.

Two hours later, a key clicked in the lock. Cory hurled himself from the bed, clutching the revolver, and stood against the wall by the side of the door.

The door swung open and allowed a stream of hall light to make a path across the worn carpeting. They stepped into the room, and she elbowed the door closed.

“Baby, you are something else again,” a beer-drunk voice rasped.

“Uh huh,” she replied huskily.

“I can’t unsnap this damn bra.”

“I’ll do it.”

Ginny stepped away from the man near the door. Her hand brushed along the wall and flipped on the overhead light. The man was standing four feet from Cory and was looking directly into the barrel of the pistol pointed at his forehead.

“This some kind of badger game?”

“No.”

“Listen, mister. I don’t know what’s with you two, but I picked her up at the Pirate Den. Hell, she picked me up. If she’s your old lady, sorry, I’ll leave.” Without waiting for an answer he reached for the door.

“If you try to leave I will shoot you,” Cory said in a low voice.

In a quick movement of contempt, the man reached into his pocket and flipped his wallet on the bed. “There it is. All right?”

He was a tall, slender man of thirty. Cory liked his beard. It was a neat Vandyke, far different from his own bushy style, but his would trim out nicely.

Without letting the gun waver from its position, Cory reached over to the wallet on the bed and flipped it open. He searched through the compartments until he found the university ID card that identified Thomas Alexander as a member of the foreign-language-department faculty.

“Tie him up.”

“If you two are into some kinky sex, I don’t want to play.”

“Where are your keys?” Cory began to pat the man’s clothing. He found the key ring in a side pocket and twirled it around his finger. The man on the bed stared up at him with wide fearful eyes. “Which key fits the language lab?”

“Is that why you got me here?”

“Answer, please.”

“I’m not going to tell you. I don’t know what in hell you’re up to, but I won’t be a part of it.”

“I think you will.” Cory placed the barrel of the revolver against the man’s forehead. “You should know that I am quite serious.”

Thomas Alexander’s eyes widened further. Beads of perspiration speckled his face. The room was very quiet. “Does this have something to do with the President’s daughter?”

“Which key?” Cory insisted.

“The long silver one.”

Cary held out the indicated key. “This one?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll see. Now, at what time do you usually unlock the language room for the eight A.M. class?”

“Different times.”

“Everyone follows a pattern, Alexander. I want yours. You are going to teach one of the most important classes of your life, and I am your one and only pupil. We are going to go over it and over it until we’re both convinced that I have it down correctly. Shall we begin?”

“If I don’t cooperate?”

“Need I bother to answer that?”

“I drank a lot of beer tonight,” Alexander said, “I wonder if I could …”

Cory nodded, and Ginny began to loosen the ropes. Cory retreated across the room and stood holding the revolver ready. “I wouldn’t try anything.”

Alexander looked at Cory’s tight face. “I don’t think I will.”

The session continued until dawn. Cory asked for minute details about Alexander’s morning routine and the usual procedures in the language lab. When they had completed the routine he would go back and start at midpoint, constantly probing and repeating in order to pick up any inconsistencies in the teacher’s version of his routine.

“You’re going to take my place?” Alexander said.

“Yes. And if there are any foul-ups, my friend here—” he nodded to Ginny, “will kill you.”

“And if it goes okay?”

“We will release you unharmed.”

“How do I know that?”

“You’re going to have to trust us. Now let’s go over it again. What should I do if someone asks me for the proper pronunciation?”

“Tell them you have laryngitis,” Ginny suggested.

“That might work,” Alexander agreed.

As time wore on, that special relationship between hostage and captors, guard and prisoner was born. By 3 A.M. Alexander was helpfully suggesting alternative actions for Cory and added details left out at the beginning of the evening. He had entered into a symbiotic relationship with Cory, and in the dim darkness of near dawn, seemed eager for the successful completion of the mission.

They let him sleep at dawn. In exhaustion, Ginny curled up on the easy chair.

“Now, remember,” Cory said to her. “Have him make the call to the university at ten-thirty, and not a second before. He must call in sick, but not before I’ve held that first class.”

She nodded understanding as her eyes closed.

Cory went into the bathroom and took razor and scissors from the medicine chest. He looked at their sleeping prisoner and paid close attention to the cut of the teacher’s beard. He would not pass for Thomas Alexander, their body frames and facial features were too different, but to a casual and distant observer there would be a certain similarity.

He began to trim his beard into a neat Vandyke.

Cory arrived at the liberal-arts building at 7:45. He wore a sport coat over a loose-fitting cotton shirt and chinos. Swinging the thin attaché case at his side, he walked resolutely to the language lab and slipped the key into the lock.

The key fit and turned. Alexander had been truthful. Cory entered the cool room and closed the door. The instructor’s dais was a foot off the floor—a wooden platform. There was a console, turntable, microphone, and headphones on the desk. He sat down.

The cubicles stretched before him. Each booth had a small number near the top of the partition that faced him. He glanced down at the console and ran his finger across the numbered switches.

Cory turned to the record case and slipped the day’s assignment from its jacket. He held it by the edge and gently slipped it on the turntable.

It was nearly time for class to begin.

Ron Sawyer walked alongside Elizabeth Crescatt as they mounted the steps into the liberal-arts building. She seemed distant this morning. He knew she resented the agent’s constant presence but had finally accepted it as a necessary hindrance. As she once said to him, it played havoc with her sex life.

He constantly swiveled his head from side to side as they passed by hurrying groups of sleepy students on their way to early class.

At the beginning of the year there had been stares from the rest of the student body, but as the semester progressed the Secret Service agents had become accepted as only two more among the many hurrying to class.

When they approached the door to the language lab, Ron was about to tell Rackman that he was taking corridor duty again, but then he glanced in the classroom.

The man behind the console was obviously the instructor, but something about him ticked a nerve. Gone were thoughts of corridor duty. He was senior agent. It was his job. He followed Liz into the class and let her sit in cubicle twelve before he walked toward the teacher.

The man behind the turntable looked up as he approached.

“You the regular instructor?”

“I’m subbing.”

“You know who is in this class?”

“You must be from the Secret Service.”

“Right.” Ron quickly patted the man down. He was clean. He glanced down at the attaché case by the side of the desk. “May I look in that, please?”

“Of course.” The instructor’s voice was raspy. Ron opened the thin case to reveal some paperback books and a few file folders. He quickly flipped through the case and then closed it. He nodded at the teacher and retreated across the room to take his place in a cubicle next to Liz.

Something bothered him. It was a sense of danger he could not define.

The last student into the lab closed the door and took her seat. The instructor stood up and pointed to his throat. “I can’t help you very much today, but any questions can be answered in Thursday’s session. Let us begin.”

Cory set the turntable in motion. The record was now being broadcast to every student in the room. Sequestered in their soundproof cubicles, each student had earphones on and was studiously or in boredom listening to and repeating Russian phrases and sentences.

In cubicle twelve Cory could see the top of Elizabeth Crescatt’s head, which was now enveloped under large earphones.

He bent low over the microphone and switched the broadcast lever for cubicle twelve.

“Miss Crescatt, it is very important that you listen to me. Your father’s life may depend on it. I am Cory Williams, and I want to tell you what happened to me and how it affects you.”

There was no way for her to respond to him; however, it would be all too easy for her to push her chair back two feet, pluck the sleeve of the agent in the next booth, and point an accusing finger toward Cory.

The agent, with drawn gun, would be at Cory’s side in seconds.

Cory kept talking. He kept to the facts as to what had befallen him in the past weeks. He knew that in all probability he was merely amplifying what she had read in the newspapers and heard on television.

She had to believe him. He could only hope from what he knew of this young woman—she was a slightly impetuous romantic, and very interested in her father’s well-being—that she would let her natural curiosity in Cory’s story reach her.

He talked and watched her head over the partition. She rarely moved. She was listening intently.

He continued. He told her of the last conversation with Norm Lewis and the few bits of information he had concerning the Committee of One Thousand.

“I have reason to believe that the Vice-President may be a part of or a dupe of this organization.”

He saw her head nod in agreement.

“I do not know who can be trusted. Although their membership is not large, it is obviously extensive. I must see your father.”

She sat erect. Her eyes looked over the top edge of the partition.

“Can you help me arrange a meeting?” he asked.

She slowly took off her earphones. Her eyes were very blue. Liz Crescatt pushed her chair back.

Cory’s abdominal muscles tensed. All she had to do was to turn to her right, toward the Secret Service agent at her side.

She stood and started around the perimeter of the classroom toward where he sat.

Ron Sawyer looked up with interest as Liz walked to the front of the class. His eyes narrowed as he looked at Cory. He automatically flipped open the single button of his sport coat. His fingers flexed. It would be an easy shot. He would brace the revolver along the edge of the partition. The target was only twenty feet away and was a large man with a wide expanse of chest.

What in hell was the crazy broad doing now?

Cory stepped down from the low platform as Liz Crescatt approached him. Her head was cocked slightly to one side as she watched him closely. He leaned forward and she whispered in his ear.

“You’re taking a terrible risk doing this.”

“I had to. Can you arrange a meeting?”

“I must think about it.”

“There’s little time.”

“I have to think.”

“I will be outside your apartment at seven-thirty tomorrow morning.”

“I will give you my answer then.”

She returned to her cubicle. Ron Sawyer relaxed when she sat down.

Cory felt a thin line of perspiration stream from his armpits and course down his body. His hands shook.

The triumvirate of purple-rinsed old women pensioners loaned their small dogs to Cory once again. He had grown actively to dislike the pampered beasts. They seemed to bark excessively, a characteristic which increased in direct proportion to their lack of bulk. The Pekingese was the worst.

He glanced at an outdoor clock far up the avenue that flashed the time in minute intervals. It was nearly time. He began to walk slowly down the street toward Elizabeth Crescatt’s apartment.

He arrived at 7:28 and led the animals to a small tree that had somehow managed to survive numerous indignities by thousands of dogs. He slouched against the thin tree while the animals continued their interminable sniffing.

The brownstone’s door opened as Liz Crescatt hurried down the steps in front of the ever-present Secret Service agent. She quickly ran to Cory and threw her arms around him.

“Good morning, darling.”

He managed to mumble a forlorn, “Hi,” and fought for control of the three dogs.

And then she was gone. The agent caught up with her and whisked her into the rear of a limousine. The car immediately left the curb and turned into the Heavy morning traffic.

Cory turned back to the hotel. The recalcitrant dogs tumbled after him as he pulled their leashes. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of their brief encounter. He dispensed the animals to their owners and returned to their room, where a trussed Thomas Alexander glared at him.

“Well?” Ginny asked from the window sill, where she sat with a cup of coffee in one hand and the pistol in the other. “At least she didn’t turn you in.”

“No, but not much else either.” He slouched against the wall and jammed his hands in his pockets. He felt a crumpled wad of paper in his right pocket and slowly withdrew it. As he unraveled the paper he wondered if the President’s daughter was passing on her used chewing gum. He read the short message:

“You’re my date for dinner. Corner of Haverford and Commonwealth at 7:30. Liz.”

He broke into a smile. “I think we’re halfway home.”

“I’d like to go home now,” a truculent voice from the man on the bed said.

“A few more hours, old man,” Cory said expansively. “Only a few more hours.”

The feature story on the noon television news opened with a shot of Air Force One landing at Logan Airport. President Orville Crescatt’s tall, gaunt frame exited from the door at the top of the ramp and took the steps two at a time. He hurried past waiting men and women with microphones, waved and then climbed into a limousine that had driven onto the runway.

An aide approached the waiting microphones. “The President will hold a press conference at three this afternoon in the hotel ballroom. As you all know, he will give a major address here tomorrow.”

“What are his plans for tonight?” a female voice asked.

“A simple family affair. He will dine alone with his daughter, Elizabeth, and then work on tomorrow’s speech.”

“Would you say that security precautions are more extensive than they usually are?”

“I would say so. As you know, there was a serious attempt on President Crescatt’s life not long ago. The gunman is still at large. Naturally, we have great concern over Williams’s possible presence at any presidential function.” The aide waved and hurried toward the last remaining limousine as reporters shouted questions after him in a babble of indistinguishable sounds.

Cory switched off the small black-and-white TV set and sat looking at the blank screen for a long time.

A brisk spring wind with north-Atlantic freshets of cold blew through Boston Harbor and up the Charles River to swirl around the corner where Cory stood.

He glanced up at the street sign, “Haverford Street.” It was nearly 7:30.

Ron Sawyer declined to switch off his shift to let another agent take Elizabeth Crescatt to dinner with her father. He used his prerogative as Agent-in-Charge, and would stay on duty until they returned to the brownstone from the presidential suite at the downtown hotel.

He wasn’t quite sure what instigated his change of plans. Other agents often talked of “gut feelings,” and he had occasionally felt the same. He ticked over the day’s events to see if anything unusual caused his nibble of fear.

It may have started early that morning when he checked the previous night’s log. The “duty log” recorded every event in the life of their charge, and usually did so in dismaying detail.

“‘Ruby One’ [Liz Crescatt’s code name] extremely restless. Subject paced in room until well past two. Lights turned on again throughout the night. Ruby arose at five A.M.”

Grown men’s voyeurism, he thought. Agents sitting in a living room and watching the lights under the door of a young woman’s bedroom. God, what a way to earn a living.

Her actions toward the man with the dogs this morning were also inexplicable.

“Who was that guy?” he had asked her during the drive to the campus.

“You remember,” she had replied. “He’s in the Department of Foreign Languages,” she had said brusquely, and turned her attention to a textbook.

“It’s almost seven-thirty, Mr. Sawyer. I’m ready to go now.” She smiled at him with a radiance he hadn’t noticed during the few days he’d been on kiddie duty. She was dressed in a well-tailored champagne-colored velvet pants suit. Her long blond hair was piled loosely on her head, held in place by a silver clasp.

Ron Sawyer felt a quick churning in his abdomen, followed by a fleeting breathlessness. Oh, Christ! he thought. I’m getting turned on by a young woman who … he dismissed the thought and jerked into a militarylike stiff stance. “Let’s go,” he said with a slightly pompous air.

I’m nearly ten years older than she is, he told himself as he followed her down the stairs to the entryway and watched the way her hair glistened in the light.

They were in the limo and headed downtown when Elizabeth turned to him with the same smile she had given him upstairs in the apartment.

“I want to pick up someone at the corner of Haverford Street,” she said. “I’ve invited him for dinner.”

“Oh?” He again felt a quick turn in his gut, but this time it wasn’t sexuality. “Who is it?” He automatically slipped a thin black notebook from his pocket and was prepared to flip through the alphabetized list of approved names.

“One of my instructors. From the foreign-language department.”

“The one from the lab? The one with the beard?”

“That’s the one,” she said, smiled, and turned to look out the window.

“Ah, I don’t think we’ve checked him out, Miss Crescatt.”

Again the smile, but this time there was a tightening of lines around the mouth. “I couldn’t care less, Mr. Sawyer. I am taking Thomas to dinner to meet my father.”

He could only nod. Christ, maybe the silly broad was in love. That’s all they needed. That would account for her sleeplessness the night before and the tension he now felt within her. The last thing in the world he wanted was chaperon duty while a young healthy woman went on dates with a healthy young man who wanted … He let the thought dissipate and tapped on the window behind the driver.

“There’s a guy we got to pick up, corner of Haverford. Miss Crescatt will point him out.”

The driver, Frank Sommerhill, frowned. He hated breaks in routine. They all did. But he nodded and began to edge the long car into the far right lane as they approached the corner of Haverford Street.

“That’s him,” Liz said as she pointed to Cory, who stood next to a lamppost near the corner. She put her hand on Sawyer’s arm and smiled again. “Thanks, Mr. Sawyer.”

Sawyer leapt from the car before it had completely stopped, and walked toward Cory.

“You’re Thomas?” Damn! He hadn’t even gotten the guy’s last name

“Thomas Alexander,” Cory replied as he walked toward the car’s open door.

“Ah, would you mind if I … ah.…” Cory turned to look at the Secret Service agent, who held up his hands with the palms open.

“You want to search me, or something?”

“That’s the general idea.” Ron tried to smile, but it came hard. He briskly and efficiently patted down Cory and then gestured for him to get in the rear of the car. Ron Sawyer slipped into the front seat, next to the driver, and they moved away from the curb.

“Darling,” Elizabeth Crescatt said as she put her arms around Cory.

“Who is that guy?” Frank Sommerhill asked as they drove toward the hotel near the Commons

“Some instructor at the college.”

“For God’s sake! Tonight?”

“What can I do? She wants him to meet Daddy.”

The driver shrugged. “You’re the boss. You going to give him a red badge?”

“How the hell’s he going to dine with Diamond One without a goddamn badge?”

The driver shrugged.

They pulled into the basement garage of the hotel and parked in a space that had been roped off, near a service elevator. The elevator door stood open, with a Secret Service agent in the doorway.

Hand in hand, Cory and Liz Crescatt walked toward the waiting elevator car. Ron Sawyer was about to follow, when he leaned back in the limo window. “Frank, call the college security office and see if they have a Thomas Alexander on the staff.” He hurried toward the elevator door as it began to slide shut.

“Your dad’s suite is on the nineteenth floor,” he said to Elizabeth, and remembered his briefing. He felt the small red badge in his side pocket and reluctantly slipped it out and handed it to Cory. “You’ll need to wear this as long as you’re on the presidential floor,” he said, and wished he didn’t have to.

There were four men by the elevator bank in the corridor of the nineteenth floor. Cory and Liz walked toward a large oak double door at the end of the hallway, where another guard stood by the entrance. The door guard smiled and tipped his hand in a quick salute.

“Good evening, Miss Crescatt.”

“Hi, Billy. How’s Laureen?”

“Couldn’t be better.” The agent beamed as he opened the door in front of them.

Cory and Liz entered the suite by a short hallway that exited into a large living room.

The President of the United States stood facing a large picture window that overlooked the city and harbor.

“I have someone for you to meet, Pop,” Liz said as they crossed the room.

Orville Crescatt turned with a broad smile. His hand reached out toward Cory and then fell back as the smile faded.

“Dad, this is …”

“I know who he is,” Orville Crescatt said. “What do you want, Williams?”

CHAPTER 20

Ron Sawyer sat uneasily before a turkey club-sandwich in the hotel coffee shop. He had just personally delivered a man he did not trust, to the President. There was also a nagging sense of recognition concerning the university instructor—a dim feeling that he couldn’t place. To further complicate matters, he felt a distinct electricity between himself and Liz Crescatt. He had to quickly dismiss both thoughts. The worry over the teacher with the beard had to be forgotten because it was too late. A mutual feeling between him and Ruby One was dangerous to his future career in the Service.

Frank Sommerhill slid into the booth opposite Sawyer and signaled for a waitress. “Checked with campus security. There is a Thomas Alexander who is an instructor in the language department. Russian, they said.”

“Alexander?”

“The language.”

Ron forked a slab of turkey meat out from under its covering of toast and picked at it without appetite. “Alexander ran the language lab yesterday. Ruby One left her cubicle to talk to him. I checked the log back for a couple of months. That seems to be the only time she ever talked to the guy until today.”

“So? He scores fast. Forget it, Ron. If the guy’s not clean, it’s too late now.”

“Beautiful thought.”

Frank Sommerhill ordered a hamburger deluxe and coffee. “You want me to call someone to relieve you?”

“No. I’ll finish the shift. Frank, you’ve been on kiddie duty all year. Does Liz date much?”

Frank looked across the table at him with a raised eyebrow. “Is this security talk, or are you interested?”

“Security,” Ron snapped.

“She hardly ever dates. It’s almost as if she weren’t interested in guys.”

“She’s straight.”

“Hell, yes. I think the security crap annoys her on a date.”

“Yeah, I suppose. Frank, who has the rogue’s gallery this trip?” He referred to a massive collection of photographs and dossiers of known security risks, assembled according to the President’s itinerary.

“Nevins. He’s domiciled in nineteen-twelve.”

Ron pushed away from the table. He left his food nearly untouched. “I want to flip through it. I’ve seen that guy somewhere before.”

Frank Sommerhill bit into his recently delivered hamburger. “Go ahead.”

The President and Cory Williams were twelve feet apart. Liz Crescatt stood at an equal distance to the side as if to complete the triangle.

The wide living room with its mass of windows overlooking the city was familiar to Cory. He realized that last year the bank he worked for had rented this same suite as its hospitality headquarters during the Mortgage Bankers’ Convention. He nearly laughed at the irony.

“I’m surprised you recognized me, sir.”

“You’ve haunted me for years. You were quite a bit younger in those days and without the beard, but I remember.”

“The hearings,” Cory said softly.

“Yes. When I was chairman of the congressional subcommittee investigating your father. You sat, every single blessed day, in the front row, directly behind your dad and his lawyers.” Orville Crescatt sat in a high-backed wing chair and crossed his legs. His eyes never left Cory. “I watched the disintegration of a young man’s love as the hearings progressed.”

“Yes, that’s what happened,” Cory said in nearly a whisper.

“I could tell the day your father’s guilt was absolute in your mind. I saw it in your face, and you looked at me with hate. I knew then that I had won. If you were convinced, so was the country.”

“And it made you President.”

“You would be extremely naïve to believe that.”

Liz Crescatt seemed bewildered at their exchange. “Daddy, I did what I thought was right.”

“Why did you bring him?”

“I believed what he said.”

Orville Crescatt sighed. “And to think the Secret Service completely restricts my life and yet a would-be assassin is delivered right to my private quarters. Boggles the mind, doesn’t it, Cory?” There was a trace of a smile on the President’s face.

“On their behalf, it took some arranging.”

“I assume they are still efficient enough to see that you did not arrive with a weapon?”

“They searched me.”

“What do you want with me? And my daughter?”

“I want to explain to you the facts I told your daughter.”

“Explain what?”

“What happened to me in Deerford.”

“I know what happened to me in Deerford. I was nearly shot.”

“I know, sir. May I give it all to you? I feel that it’s important to all of us.”

Orville Crescatt glanced down at his watch. “You have twenty minutes.”

The suite at the far end of the nineteenth floor was filled with half a dozen shirt-sleeved men who wore pistols strapped to their bodies.

Ron Sawyer sat on a twin bed with a large leather case by his side. The case was filled with file folders and books of photographs. He opened the case.

A hand clapped his back. “How do you like kiddie patrol, Sawyer?”

Ron looked up in slight annoyance. “It’s all right,” he replied noncommittally.

The other agent smiled. “They used to call it diaper duty, but with the body on Liz Crescatt, I can think of another name.”

“I suppose.”

“You noticed, heh? That girl’s got a body that doesn’t stop.”

“Uh huh,” Ron replied, and looked back at the files. He blushed. He had noticed.

He took out the first file and began to thumb through it.

When Cory finished, Orville Crescatt leaned back in the wing chair with his fingers tented in front of his face. His eyes were half closed. Across the room, Liz Crescatt sat on the edge of her chair. She leaned forward in anticipation.

“I’m convinced,” Cory said in conclusion, “that this so-called Committee is a true conspiracy. It is well organized and possessed of nearly limitless resources. They intend to kill you and have the Vice-President succeed to the office.”

There was heavy silence in the room when Cory finished. The President leaned forward. “If I were to buy your theory, my only recourse would be to isolate myself in some safe haven such as Camp David.”

“I would suggest that as prudent,” Cory replied.

“Which would destroy my Crusade to reach the people. In that case, in a partial sense at least, Mr. Williams, the ends of your so-called Committee would have been realized. I would be isolated, cut off, and ineffectual in any political sense.”

“You never have been satisfied with Vice-President Collins, Daddy,” Liz said.

Orville Crescatt smiled at his daughter. “What President has ever been satisfied with his Vice-President? He was selected out of political expediency. I needed certain conservative support from the right wing of my party. I took Collins as the lesser of a great many other evils. That doesn’t mean that I’m convinced that Collins is so greedy for my job that he’s planning my demise.”

Cory felt a nervous energy within him. He leaned forward intently. “That’s just it, Mr. President. Collins might not even be a part of the Committee. It may be that they feel he can be manipulated toward their ends. Is that possible?”

“Collins can be manipulated toward any end recommended by the last person to speak with him.” The President smiled. “Rather candid, aren’t I? Of course, I’ll deny that statement; but then again, Cory is hardly in any position to publicize our conversation.”

“You must believe me, Mr. President.”

Orville Crescatt walked to a window and clasped his hands behind his back. He looked out over the city lights winking toward the horizon. “Remember Shakespeare’s play with a similar theme?”

“Julius Caesar,” Liz said automatically.

“Of course,” the President said without turning. “They came to Caesar before he was to attend the Senate that fateful day. They talked of conspiracies.”

“‘Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once,’” Liz Crescatt intoned.

“Exactly.” Crescatt faced them. “When I ran for this office I accepted the inherent risk of assassination. Like everyone else, I’ve wondered about other political deaths. I never bought the Kennedy conspiracy theories, but I did wonder about the Martin Luther King murder. You must understand, Cory. I am unable to accept your premise without corroboration.”

“There is none, sir.”

“I have a job to do and will continue to do it.”

“Until they kill you,” Liz Crescatt said.

“You needn’t go with me tomorrow, Elizabeth.”

“I said I would. After Mom died, I said I would be your hostess and accompany you whenever you wished.”

“Such commitments can be broken.”

“I believe him, Daddy.”

“You’re not the President, Elizabeth.”

The man in Toledo waited impatiently for the connection to be established. “Boston.”

“King’s Bishop to Queen’s Pawn three.”

“Check.” Identities had been established. “This is Rook.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It must be tomorrow. All pieces necessary to accomplish check and mate must be utilized. We are behind schedule.”

“We have no backup for safety.”

“Pieces that reach the end of the board can convert to Queens. Queens have all the power necessary to offer protection. I say again, I wish maximum effort tomorrow.”

“Understood.”

The connection was broken. Rook leaned back in his chair and bent back over the chess board by his side. It was an interesting game plan. He would be curious to see its outcome.

Ron Sawyer held a photograph of Cory Williams in his hand and stared at it a long time. The hair color was wrong. The beard on the teacher obscured facial lines, but the top part of the face and forehead fit.

He slipped a mechanical pencil from his breast pocket and began to sketch a neat Vandyke beard onto the photograph. When his rough artwork was complete he stuffed the picture into his pocket. He fumbled for his jacket, automatically patted the gun strapped to his side, and left the room.

At the end of the long hall he saw that the double doors of the presidential suite were now guarded by two agents. That would be messy. God only knew what was happening in the suite. He had to get inside quickly, with some element of surprise.

He tried to recall the floor plan of the hotel suite that he had been given as part of his travel kit. The large living room was flanked by a bath, bar-room, and two bedrooms. Located off the bar-room was a pantry and a service entrance that could be entered from a rear hall.

Ron Sawyer left the main corridor through a fire door that entered into a servants’ corridor.

Another agent lounged against the wall near the pantry entrance to the suite. He stood erect as Ron approached and then relaxed as he recognized his fellow agent.

“What’s up, Sawyer?”

“Message for Ruby One.”

“Right.” The agent leaned over and unlocked the pantry entrance, and Ron slipped inside.

The serving pantry was unlit, but a dim light came through from the bar-room, just off the main living room. He heard a low hum of voices but couldn’t decipher what they were saying.

Nothing had happened—yet.

He unbuttoned his sport coat and drew the Magnum from its holster. He slipped from the pantry in a crouch, the heavy revolver braced with both hands. Inside the bar-room he was able to look into the living-room area through partially open louvered doors.

The President sat in a wing chair facing him, Liz was to his right, and Cory Williams was hunched forward in a straight chair ten or twelve feet in front of Orville Crescatt.

Ron Sawyer stepped through the louvered doors in a shooting crouch. He planted both feet firmly and leaned slightly forward in a textbook shooting stance.

Elizabeth Cresscatt saw him first. “Mr. Sawyer?”

“Don’t move, Williams!”

Cory’s shoulders stiffened as his back muscles bunched. He slowly stood without turning.

“Raise ’em.” Ron Sawyer watched with satisfaction as Cory’s hands slowly rose into the air.

The President also stood. “What is the meaning of this, Mr. Sawyer?”

Ron slowly approached Cory, shoved him against the wall, and searched his body thoroughly for weapons. He didn’t answer Crescatt’s demand until he was convinced Cory was unarmed. “This man is Cory Williams, sir. He’s the guy in Connecticut who took a shot at you in the motorcade.”

“I know who he is.”

Ron gave Cory an unceremonious shove that sprawled him across a nearby couch. Cory’s face was chalk-white, and he seemed to be hyperventilating. “I don’t understand, sir. This man is wanted by everyone in the country. He escaped from jail, killed a couple of people, and God only knows what else.”

“Are any other agents aware of his presence?” Crescatt snapped.

Ron paused before answering. He had violated nearly every rule of his training by making this approach without backup. He could very well have jeopardized his charge’s life. He had taken the risk and prevailed, and now his weapon never wavered from its aim at Cory’s chest. “No, sir. I am alone. I finally recognized the man’s picture. I am sure I will be reprimanded for not realizing earlier who he was.”

Elizabeth Crescatt crossed to her father’s side and put a hand on his shoulder. “I brought him here and gave him my word nothing would happen.”

The president smiled in the skewed, tight way he often used in situations of great pressure. “It would seem that Mr. Williams is here under a flag of truce, Mr. Sawyer.”

“Sir, with all due respect, there must be two dozen charges filed against this man in several jurisdictions.”

“I gave him my word, Mr. Sawyer.” Liz looked directly at Ron.

Ron Sawyer had never seen eyes so deeply blue. His knees felt weak, and he wondered if it were the tenseness of the situation or the increasing feeling he had for this attractive young woman across the room. “I have a job to …” he mumbled until the thought died. He recovered and glanced at the President without letting the gun waver from Cory. “Sir, I have a sworn oath.”

“To serve your Commander-in-Chief.”

“This man is a criminal.”

Cory’s muscles began to relax. He realized one salient fact. This intense agent was not a member of the Committee. If he were, he would have, without preamble, fired and killed Cory the instant he entered the room. Crescatt’s eyes swiveled from Cory to Sawyer. Cory had the feeling that Crescatt had made the same assumption, and although he still might not believe Cory’s story, he had doubts and uneasiness.

“I am considering pardoning this man,” Crescatt said after a pause.

“You what, sir?” Sawyer’s voice cracked in astonishment.

“You heard me, Sawyer. This man is presently under my protection and under consideration for a presidential pardon. You notice I say ‘consideration.’ I have that power vested in me, you know.”

“Yes, sir, of course. But this guy’s a …”

“You will do the following,” Crescatt said in a low voice filled with complete authority. “You will escort this man from the hotel and then leave him where you picked him up. You will not attempt to follow or molest him. You will not discuss the matter with anyone. I emphasize again, you will not discuss this with anyone. You, Mr. Williams, will tell Mr. Sawyer what you told me, and in the same detail. Is that understood by both of you?”

“Yes,” Cory said.

Ron Sawyer looked unhappy but finally responded with a reluctant, “Yes, sir.” There goes the old career, Sawyer thought, but he couldn’t help noticing the very large smile Liz gave him.

“I think you had all better go,” the President said. He shook hands with Cory. “I don’t know what to believe about what you’ve said, Cory. You may be mentally unbalanced, a con artist, or telling the truth as you see it. I helped destroy your father, for which I have no regrets, but I watched you suffer during those weeks in the hearing room. Because of that, I’m giving you a chance … temporarily. I will not be responsible for your complete destruction. What you do tomorrow is your own business, but I order you not to continue with this matter. Is that understood?”

“I don’t seem to have much choice, sir.”

“You don’t. Good night.”

The President and his daughter sat down to await their dinner.

Cory and the agent had been dismissed, and they left.

CHAPTER 21

“I wish I could say that I really enjoyed our stay together … but I can’t.” Thomas Alexander was still bound to the bed in the small hotel room. Apprehensively, he watched Cory and Ginny pack their meager belongings. “You guys aren’t mad, are you? I mean, I’ve been cooperative, haven’t I?” They didn’t turn, and he began to perspire. “You … ah, you aren’t going to do anything to me, are you?”

Ginny zipped a small carryall and leaned over the bed to kiss Thomas on the forehead. “I hope you get your tenure, Tom.”

“Thanks.”

“An hour after we leave, I’ll call the management here and tell them to check the room. They’ll release you.”

“Woop-de-doo.”

“Don’t get sarcastic,” Cory said with a hidden smile.

“Hey, I didn’t mean anything.”

“Got everything?” Ginny asked.

“We’ll grab a cab,” Cory said as he stuffed a gag in Alexander’s mouth. He dropped the garage ticket, keys, and car title on the bed next to the bound teacher. “It’s a seventy-two LeBaron. It’s yours if you want it.”

They walked down the scruffed carpeting to the elevator, where Ginny pressed the down button. “Where to now?”

“You said California once, didn’t you?”

“California!” She dropped the carryall and threw her arms around him. “Then it’s over?”

“It’s over. We rebuild what we can. There’s nothing more I can do.”

“You tried, Cory. God only knows you took a terrible risk going to Crescatt that way.”

The elevator door slid open, and two old ladies with dogs smiled at Cory. They stepped into the car and were silent during the ride down to the street level.

Cory hailed a cruising cab on Commonwealth Avenue and asked for Logan Airport.

Ginny seemed ecstatic, which only increased his depression. He knew she was happy because the tension was released. The danger of the last few days had taken its toll on both of them, and now the agreement to go to California signaled the end of their quest. Theirs would be a secretive future in some remote town as they gradually tried to assemble new identities and begin a new life.

She hugged him and whispered into his ear. “Do you think you’re really pardoned?”

“I think I had an hour’s worth of pardon to fulfill Liz’s commitment to me. We still have to be careful.”

She grabbed his arm. “We will be, Cory. We will be very careful.”

“Don’t you ever go off duty, Mr. Sawyer?” the President asked.

Ron tried to smile. “Occasionally, sir. I’ll be in the limo with you and Elizabeth during the motorcade. We’ll be preceded by a motorcycle escort of local police. We’ll have the closed car and …”

“No closed car,” Orville Crescatt said.

“Sir, in all respect, in light of the fact that we both know Mr. Williams is in town and is one of the best marksmen in the …”

“No closed car and no bubble.”

“I must insist.”

“This is a political trip, Mr. Sawyer. It is not a sealed train from Switzerland to the mother country.”

“Cory Williams with a high-pow—”

“The open car. By the way did you enjoy Cory’s story last night?”

“I think he’s nutty as a fruitcake. I hope that later today I will have your permission to put out a bulletin on his presence in Boston.”

“That would be a little hard for both of us to explain, Mr. Sawyer. No. We shall let the usual procedures snare him—if they can.”

“He might make another attempt.”

“Attempts on my life go with the territory, but I don’t think he will.” The President patted Sawyer’s shoulder, and Ron knew why this man could capture the heart and loyalty of so many.

Crescatt started toward the door of the suite and was joined by Liz. They exited into the nineteenth-floor hallway together.

The Secret Service hated motorcades with a passion. The dislike went back long before the Kennedy-Dallas catastrophe. As Ron recalled, the morning of his assassination, the agent in charge had begged Kennedy to ride in a closed car. The young President had resisted the offer just as he refused the bubble-top dome.

Crescatt was the same—they were all the same.

Sawyer was in a black mood as he boarded the elevator behind the President. His frustrating trip the night before with Cory Williams hadn’t helped. He had debated with himself most of the night as to whether or not he should call his chief and override the President’s command.

No one could override the President’s administrative command. His career would be over.

His mood hadn’t been helped this morning when he had informed the other agents on kiddie duty that he was taking another shift of duty. They hadn’t grumbled openly, but he saw by their dark looks that they thought he was using his seniority to build overtime.

The presidential limousine was waiting by the elevator door in the basement of the hotel. Ron had specifically asked that agent Frank Sommerhill, his driver of the night before, be present this morning. He had served with Sommerhill for three years and knew him to be one of the Service’s best wheel men.

The motorcade formed outside the hotel garage in the two-block area that had been cordoned off by Boston police. Frank Sommerhill drove, while Ron sat next to him. President Crescatt and Elizabeth occupied the rear seat.

Frank handed the clipboard holding the motorcade’s operating procedure to Ron. Ron studied the route and flipped several of the pages to familiarize himself with the location of the nearest hospital at various points along the route. Hospitals, at least in Boston, were no problem. The city seemed mostly composed of hospitals and colleges.

The route had been designed to give the President maximum exposure to lunch-hour pedestrians. The route wound around the Commons and through the downtown area and then took a circuitous route to Faneuil Hall. It would give maximum exposure but also concomitant with that, maximum danger.

The phalanx of police motorcycles roared to life.

Ron turned to check on the second car, which contained a group of Secret Service backup men.

The motorcade began.

People were ten deep on the perimeter of the Commons. Crescatt waved and occasionally stood to clasp both hands over his head. The President seemed to be truly enjoying the experience, and his daughter glowed with the excitement of the crowd’s adulation.

Liz’s and Ron’s eyes met and held. There was an electrical spark between them. He turned quickly away to look up at the crowded buildings in the downtown shopping area. Dozens of people hung, out of windows. It was a security nightmare. He adjusted his dark glasses and swept the area on both sides of the street. The sidewalks were packed.

“You’re going to win, Daddy,” he heard Liz say. “The people are behind you.”

The motorcade was now in the oldest part of the city. Buildings seemed to crowd the narrow passageway. The mobs on either side of the police cordons contributed to the oppressive feeling of confinement.

“You tell them, Prez,” a lone voice rang out over the noise of the crowd.

Ron nearly smiled. The voice was familiar. He was convinced it was the same voice that seemed to always be heard over the broadcaster’s play-by-play from Fenway Park.

The street took a narrow curve to the right. The buildings seemed even older, the crowds heavier. He turned to see that the agents in the backup car had divided their visual coverage into sectors. Several of them swept the crowd on either side, while others scanned rooftops and windows for possible marksmen.

He had a disturbing feeling of impending disaster. He knew there was nothing specific to warn him, only an inchoate sense that something was wrong.

The limousine was moving at less than ten miles an hour. His feelings became more pronounced, and he felt compelled to take some action.

Ron unsnapped a small walkie-talkie from his belt and raised it to his lips. He pressed the transmit lever.

“Diamond One to control.”

“Control.” It was Goldman, from the backup car.

“Shift. I repeat. Shift.”

“Shift acknowledged.”

It was a simple maneuver they had practiced on numerous occasions in order for it to proceed smoothly. On command, the presidential limousine slowed and pulled as far to the right-hand side of the street as possible. The backup car sped forward and took the lead position behind the motorcycle escort. The change of position took less than ten seconds.

The first explosion occurred after the motorcycle escort and first two limousines had rounded a curve.

In an automatic movement, Ron Sawyer turned and heaved himself over the seat top. His hands reached for the President and pulled him to the floor of the car, where his body provided a protective shield.

He recognized the crump of rifle grenades.

After the third explosion, he raised his head over the edge of the window. Flames had begun to spout from the first limousine. The motorcycle police were in disarray. Their cycles were fanned out across the road, on their sides. Several officers lay in crumpled heaps, while a single officer, bracing his service revolver, was firing in slow cadence toward the rooftops of surrounding buildings.

The situation was apparent to Sawyer. Men armed with automatic rifles and rifle grenade launchers had been positioned by the parapets of surrounding buildings. When the head of the motorcade turned the corner, they had begun to fire. The attackers had assumed that the first car contained the President, and their initial fire had been in that direction.

There was a crump, flash, and explosion to the side of the car. A grenade hit the sidewalk to their flank. There were yells from civilians lining the sidewalk as screaming shards of shrapnel whipped through the crowd.

Another crump and explosion to the front of the vehicle.

The fire from the men on the roofs was now turned in their direction.

Elizabeth Crescatt, sprawled across the rear seat, screamed.

Ron snatched at the door handle. He tumbled off the President onto the hard pavement and turned to snatch at the President’s collar. “Come on!” His yell was lost in the crash of another explosion.

He pulled the President from the car and then reached for Liz. “What’s happening?” she screamed in his ear.

“Come on!”

He pulled both of them by the hand and ran toward the sidewalk.

Additional agents from the rear of the motorcade, many armed with automatic weapons, had run around the bend in the road. They directed their fire toward the rooftops.

The sidewalk in front of Sawyer and the Crescatts was littered with dead and wounded from an exploded grenade. They hopscotched over the bodies and ran toward a narrow doorway that led to an unused loft.

Ron’s shoulder hit the door with a shattering crunch that snapped the lock. The door slapped inward, and he jerked the President and Liz inside.

They pressed their backs against the wall of the narrow hallway as the firing continued outside.

“We’re out of the line of fire,” Ron yelled as he shoved Crescatt and Liz away from the door and down the hall.

He shielded the presidential family with his body and faced the narrow doorway with his Magnum ready.

At the initial explosion, Frank Sommerhill had thrown himself from the car and rolled under the protection of the chassis. As the firing continued, he rolled out from under the car and ran a zigzag course toward the hallway where they huddled.

Ron pulled the agent inside and pushed him down the hall. “Cover the rear!”

“Right!”

Boston City police had joined the firefight. The massive firepower of the combined forces of police and agents had begun to take its toll on the several men on the roofs.

Sirens blanked the sound of gunfire.

Ron turned from the street to tell Crescatt that they were regaining control.

The shots outside the doorway faded from his senses as he saw what was happening in the narrow hallway.

Frank Sommerhill was slowly raising his revolver until it pointed directly at the President’s forehead.

Orville Crescatt’s eyes widened in fear.

Liz seemed unaware of what was transpiring as she faced the street and clutched Ron’s coat sleeve.

Sommerhill intended to shoot the President. It was only the years of training directed toward the man’s protection that made him hesitate for the briefest of moments.

The hesitation was long enough for the President to have a full awareness of what was happening; and long enough for Ron’s Magnum to jerk twice in his hand.

Sommerhill was knocked backward down the hall and was dead before his body stopped rolling on the floor.

CHAPTER 22

The plane began its gradual descent over the Sierra Nevada mountains. It broke into clear sky, and the cabin was flooded with bright sun. The torpid passengers began to stretch. Conversation became more animated. Cory was an exception to the new vitality surrounding them. He was filled with depression combined, with malaise.

From time to time Ginny looked at him with concern and occasionally squeezed his arm. He would nod at her and try to smile. He clutched the arm rests as if the pressure of his hands would forcibly clear his mind and turn his thoughts toward the problems they faced.

There was the question of new identity, which would be complicated by their lack of funds. After payment for the airfare and the Boston expenses, they were down to a few hundred dollars. They would only have enough money for two to three weeks of frugal living.

The question of ID was number one on the list of priorities. A new Social Security card and driver’s license for each of them was imperative. Additional ID such as bank accounts, library cards, and credit cards would give their new identities veracity.

The 747 landed, and they deplaned.

“At least we don’t have to wait for luggage,” Ginny said as she hefted the small carryall from the luggage rack, which contained all their possessions.

The headline on the paper in the newspaper rack at the end of the corridor leading to the street jumped out at Cory. His hands shook as he bent forward to jam a coin in the mechanism and snatch up a copy of the L.A. Times:

ATTEMPT ON LIFE OF PRESIDENT FURIOUS GUN BATTLE IN BOSTON

The headline took up nearly half the front page. Cory leaned against the wall and scanned the four-column article. He flipped to the interior of the paper and handed the front page to Ginny. Agent Ron Sawyer’s quick thinking and speedy movements were singled out as having saved the life of President Orville Crescatt. Agent Frank Sommerhill valiantly gave his life in the defense of the chief executive, as did several uniformed Boston police and five additional agents.

Cory finished the article and tucked the paper under his arm.

“Maybe they’ll believe you now,” she said.

“Maybe.”

They moved out into bright sunlight and boarded a bus labeled “Hollywood.”

The room they rented in a downtown motor inn was seedier than the Boston hotel. Their quarters would more than likely get worse before they got better, Cory thought.

He lay on the bed while Ginny went out to find a fast-food store.

His own feelings had outweighed what was happening around him. He had ignored her and unfairly placed her in high-risk situations, and she had not complained.

Cory jackknifed from the bed and walked into the bathroom and began to lather his face. The hell with fast food! He would use some of their last reserve of money and take her out for a decent meal. It would be their first since the days in the oceanside cottage.

He finished shaving and turned on the shower. He shucked his clothes and stepped into the brisk spray.

It would be a new life. By God, he would make it a good one. There were a dozen details to work out, but it could be done. She could work as a waitress to supplement their meager funds, while he got day-laboring jobs. He knew that most cities had labor exchanges. Men were always needed to unload furniture or act as temporary warehouse help. There were such jobs, and they paid daily, without questions. It would hold them over until they were able to make long-term plans.

The splatter of water across his body refreshed him. His spirits began to rise. He finished showering and was toweling when he heard the knock at the door.

She must have locked herself out or was burdened with packages. He wrapped the towel around his middle and opened the door with a flourish.

He stated into the barrel of a .357 Magnum.

The man with the gun stepped into the room. He shoved the barrel against Cory’s naked chest and kicked the door closed. “You really got sloppy when you left Boston,” Ron Sawyer said. “You armed?”

“I dropped my gun into a trash basket at Logan Airport.”

Ron shook his head. He cautiously opened the closet door and then peeked into the bathroom. He pushed aside the shower curtain with the barrel of the pistol. “Where’s the girl?”

“We split.”

“Bullshit! She’s been with you all the way.”

“Boston was too much for her. Listen, Sawyer, I didn’t have anything to do with that Boston attempt.”

Sawyer sat near the window but still kept the gun trained on Cory. “I know you didn’t. The way I reconstruct it, you were releasing the language teacher at the time of the attack.”

Cory nodded. “Can I dress?”

“Go ahead. Where’s the girl?”

“Why don’t you just-tell me what’s going on? Are you taking us in?”

Sawyer shook his head. “Nope. But I’ll tell you something. I had to have help to find you, and some of that help may not be too reliable. They’re right behind us, Cory. They’re breathing down our tails. If we don’t get out of this motel fast, we may never get out.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It sure in hell is supposed to.”

There was a key click in the door. Sawyer threw himself against the wall and braced his gun as Ginny, her arms laden with packages, stepped into the room.

She took a quick look at Cory and then turned to face Ron Sawyer. “Oh,” she said softly.

“Anybody following you?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t look.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Sawyer said as Cory zipped his pants and stuffed his feet into shoes. “I’ve got a rental car parked out back. Bring the food. I haven’t eaten all day. Come on! Hurry! Leave everything.” He holstered the Magnum and bustled them out the door and down the hall.

“Will you tell us what in hell’s going on?” Cory asked as they drove away from the motel.

“Uh huh,” Sawyer answered noncommittally as he wove in and out of traffic, keeping a constant watch out the rearview mirror. “I think we’re clean.”

“Clean from what?” Ginny asked.

“Being followed.”

“By who?” she asked ingenuously.

“If we knew that, we wouldn’t have a problem.”

“How’d you find us?”

Sawyer snorted. “You two are a couple of amateurs. Did you really think the heat was off and you didn’t have to take care?”

“If you found us, that means others can also just as easily.”

“Not quite. I knew you were in Boston, and had other information that made it easier.”

“Explain.”

“When we get on the plane.” Sawyer swiveled the wheel to screech the car down a side street. It careened into a parking lot, circled, and came out again to head back the way they had come. He silently observed the cars they passed. “I think we’re all right,” he finally said. “At least for the time being.”

“Damn it all, Sawyer! What in hell is going on? What plane are you talking about, and where are we going?”

“Air Force Three,” the Secret Service agent said laconically. “And we’re going to Camp David. I’ll explain when we’ve boarded.”

They entered Los Angeles International Airport by a circuitous route and drove to a remote portion of the runway through an unused gate. The 707 was parked near the gate. Sawyer slammed on the brakes and signaled for them to hurry. They trotted toward the loading ramp. Ginny still carried bags of Chinese food.

As they approached the plane, Cory noticed that it was guarded by half a dozen young soldiers holding automatic weapons. He tapped Sawyer on the shoulder and pointed at the soldiers.

“I’ll explain,” the agent said as he ushered them up the steps into the main cabin.

Once they were aboard, soldiers clambered up the steps after them. Doors shut, and the plane began to roll down the runway.

“We have priority clearance for take-off,” Sawyer said as they strapped themselves into seats.

The plane rushed down the runway and quickly approached take-off speed. The soldiers moved into a rear cabin. They could dimly hear their chatter as the door between them closed.

“Those were eighty-second Airborne troops,” Cory said.

“Yes. We have a company of them at Camp David.”

“You’re going to explain?”

Ron Sawyer braced himself and grasped the edge of the seat with a grip that turned his knuckles white. “Soon as we take off. You know, flying scares the hell out of me.”

Cory settled back in his seat and watched the ground spin away as the plane made a sweep over the Pacific Ocean and banked for an easterly heading.

They were nearly at cruising altitude when a male Air Force steward served them drinks. Ron tore into the food Ginny had so laboriously carried during their race for the plane. He munched an egg roll and spooned shrimp chow mein into a blue-bordered plate the steward provided.

“Okay, from the top. You know about the newest attempt on the President’s life?”

“Only what I read in the paper. I’m sorry your friend, Frank Sommerhill, was hit. Wasn’t he the agent who drove us in Boston?”

Sawyer’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, he was. I should tell you that Sommerhill’s actions were what convinced both President Crescatt and me to believe your story.”

“How’s that?”

“During the firefight we hid in a narrow hallway. That’s where Sommerhill tried to kill the President.”

“Good God! Then they’ve reached into your agency?”

“Obviously.”

“What happened to Sommerhill? The papers said …”

“The papers printed what I told them. I killed him.” The statement was made matter-of-factly, but Cory could discern the pain lines etched in the agent’s face. He knew how Sawyer felt.

“And that convinced you?”

“That and the fact that a police report told me that at the time of the attack you were releasing the language instructor.”

“That’s what put you on to us?”

“Like I said earlier, sloppy. You mentioned a cab in front of the teacher. It wasn’t hard to put it together and trace you to California and then to the motel.”

“You operate pretty damn fast.”

“I had plenty of help, and that’s what worries me. We sent out a call from Washington that I was to be given the highest priority for the search … but damn, Cory! We don’t know who we can trust anymore.”

“Which is why the President is holed up at Camp David?”

“Yes. We flew in a company of paratroops from Fort Bragg with specific instructions that we wanted it commanded by officers of less than field rank.”

“Hoping that the committee hadn’t reached down into the junior officer corps.”

“Right.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“He’ll tell you when we get there.” Sawyer picked up a barbecued spare rib and munched on it. “Hell of a mess, hey?”

They landed at Andrews Air Force Base and once again taxied to a corner of the runway far from the main buildings. A government station wagon was waiting for them and left through a little-used gate as soon as they boarded.

They were silent during the ride through Maryland to Camp David.

Ginny nodded in exhaustion. Her head fell against Cory’s shoulder, and her eyes closed. In seconds she was asleep.

“There’s a motel on the way that will be safe,” Ron Sawyer said.

“I think she needs sleep more than anything else,” Cory replied. “She’s gone two days without it.”

“Are you OK?”

“I’ll make it.”

It took them minutes to check Ginny into the motel. She fell across the bed and was asleep before Cory could undress her. He slipped her shoes off, pulled a light blanket over her, and slipped quietly from the room.

At the presidential retreat gate they were stopped by two Airborne sergeants and ordered to leave the vehicle. After a close inspection and a telephone call with someone in the interior of the enclave, they were herded into a jeep and driven inside.

Cory noticed that fifty caliber machine gun emplacements had been positioned to give the guns interlocking fields of fire. The place was an armed camp filled with grim-faced young troopers in combat fatigues and shiny jump boots.

The President of the United States wore an L. L. Bean red checkered shirt, denim pants, loafers, and had developed a marked tic in his right eye. He paced the room with a telegraph flimsy dangling loosely from his left hand.

He stopped before the fireplace, where low flames crackled merrily in contrast to the group’s mood. He leaned against the mantel and ran the fingers of his right hand over the tremor in his face.

Cory and Ron Sawyer sat on a couch facing the fireplace. Al Smythe, a wheezing raillike man, chain-smoked in a nearby easy chair. He had a pad open on his thin knees. Elizabeth Crescatt sat in a matching chair on the far side of the room.

Cory had been introduced to Smythe when they were ushered into the room. He knew from reading Time that Smythe, the President’s closest political advisor, was considered one of the most astute political minds of the century. He had been partially responsible for the populist coalition that the twice-elected Crescatt had utilized.

“I am afraid of a coup, d’état,” President Crescatt said.

“I believe there are only a thousand of them, sir,” Cory said.

“Which thousand?” Smythe snapped. “They’re strong enough to have infiltrated the Secret Service. Sommerhill proved that.”

“Assumptions,” Crescatt said. He seemed to be speaking to himself more than the group. “The Committee has been in existence for a number of years. We can assume that it has managed to place members in high-ranking military positions.”

“And the intelligence apparatus, FBI, and CIA,” Smythe added as he doodled on his pad.

“It would be safe to assume that one or more officers of the cabinet are members.”

“And they’re represented in Congress.”

“Of course,” Crescatt said. “But who are they?” He looked down at the flimsy in his hand and read it aloud. “Members of the attacking group in Boston positively identified as members of the Cuban underground. Signed: Dunlap—FBI.”

Smythe frowned. “Which Cubans? Pro- or anti-Castro, or were they our own dupes, like the Watergate burglars?”

“Is the information reliable to begin with, sir?” Sawyer asked. “What I mean, we don’t know how far they’ve gone or who they control.”

Crescatt wadded the flimsy and thrust it into the fireplace. He watched the paper char and burst into flames. “That’s just it. We’re in a position where we can’t trust anyone or any legitimate institution. I am sure that ninety percent of the Secret Service and other agencies are loyal and not involved with the Committee. Our problem is that we don’t have the foggiest as to who or where the remaining ten, five, or one percent are.”

“Your opponents are going to make political hay while you’re a prisoner here,” Smythe said. “In that sense, you are as nullified as if you were—”

“Dead.”

“I think there’s something you should know, Orville,” Smythe said. “My sources tell me that in a few days the story will leak that you were wounded in Boston, that you are unable to continue in office.”

“And pressure will build for me voluntarily to step aside and allow the Vice-President to assume office.”

“On a temporary basis,” Smythe said sardonically.

“If we only knew who they were,” Sawyer said. “A thousand! Hell! We could place them all under surveillance and isolate them in a dozen ways. We could render the whole damn Committee ineffectual.”

“That’s a big ‘if,’ Sawyer.”

“You’re the key, Cory,” Crescatt said. “You were in on this before anyone else. There’s got to be something you know or heard, some clue that will allow us to sever the head of this hydra.”

“I told you, sir. They operate in three-man cells, none of which are known to one another.”

“There has to be control,” Sawyer added impatiently. “There’s someone, somewhere, who knows who the cells are and where they are. They can’t operate completely independently or they wouldn’t be able to mount an operation like they did in Boston.”

“The Vice-President has the most to gain,” Liz Crescatt said.

“No,” her father said. “I’ve known the man for years. He’s not capable of duplicity on such a scale. The man just isn’t bright enough.”

“A dupe, yes,” Smythe added. “An originator, no.”

“Then we’re agreed on that,” Crescatt said. “The Vice-President of the United States has unanimously been declared an idiot.”

“Don’t be bitter, Daddy,” Elizabeth said. “We’ll find an answer somehow.”

“Bitter!” Crescatt laughed. “I hold the most important position in the world. I am the Commander-in-Chief of over two million armed men. I am the commandant of the most sophisticated intelligence and law-enforcement bureaus in the world. At this moment I effectively command one hundred eighty-six high-school dropouts that are running around this building stopping every five minutes to spit-shine their jump boots, one ex-army officer wanted by the police, and a Secret Service that has one known reliable agent.” Crescatt laughed again. “You know, it’s almost as funny as when Dick Nixon went into the recording business.”

“And about as much danger to the Republic,” Smythe said, which effectively cut off the laughter.

“All right,” Crescatt continued. “We’re going to do our damnedest. We are agreed that somewhere there is a list of all members of the Committee.”

“There has to be.”

“And that list has to rest with the individual we will call ‘Control,’ whoever he or she is. The task is therefore broken into two parts: identification and isolation. Sawyer, you must have friends in the other intelligence agencies.”

“A few, sir.”

“Someone, sometime, developed intelligence-agency information about the Committee. It existed at one time. Now it probably was destroyed at someone’s command, but there will still be traces or memories of it somewhere. You’ve got to find out. You’ve got to give us something to go on.”

“And me, sir?” Cory asked.

Crescatt looked pensive. “When he finds out what we need to know, it will be up to you to isolate Control and obtain the list. Once we have a list of the Committee, we can effectively isolate them. We will have won. Without the list, we’re going to lose. Do you all understand that?”

They nodded.

It didn’t occur to Cory until later that he hadn’t been given the option of refusal.

CHAPTER 23

The man in Toledo let the phone ring. He did not want to answer it and yet knew he must. He knew the caller would not get discouraged. He would continue calling until acknowledged.

He was tired, but he had been tired before. It was the ability to call up hidden emotional and physical reserves that attested to true leadership.

He gingerly picked up the phone as if it were burning with some inner heat. “Rook here.”

He listened and shook his head. “There’s no excuse for the debacle in Boston. I take full responsibility.”

He continued listening, and for the first time in years his palms were clammy. “If Toledo is indefensible, I shall leave before the hour is out … That is correct … All precautions. Rook will be protected.”

He hung up and leaned back in the desk chair. He knew from past experience that the final battle was engaged. It would soon be over—one way or the other.

It had been a long time since he had made love, and if the circumstances had been different, Ron Sawyer would have enjoyed it more. The woman next to him in the large double bed lit two cigarettes and handed him one. He hadn’t smoked in years, but under the circumstances it seemed almost de rigueur to accept the offer. He inhaled and coughed.

“It’s been a while, Ron.”

“I’ve been out of town a lot with the President.”

“Longer than that.”

He turned and kissed her neck. “Not so long until next time.”

She nuzzled against him. “Hope not.”

He knew he was her fifth lover since she had come to Washington five years ago from Buffalo, New York. She was a chief verifier for the FBI’s computer input department, making $18,500 a year. He wished he didn’t always consider all those details. Her name was Betty Wolfe. She was attractive, unattached, thirty-two, and would marry him if he asked.

He was tempted to ask, and closed his eyes for a moment and contemplated a more reasonable existence. He knew he could be transferred from presidential security to one of the Service’s field offices merely on request. It was tempting.

The cigarette was still in his hand, and he snapped his eyes open. It was slightly more than chance that he knew her. The Service was all too aware of the internecine battles between the various intelligence and law-enforcement agencies. The present Chief of Service had suggested in a strong manner that senior members of the Service based in Washington cultivate contacts in rival agencies. He was certain that the director’s edict hadn’t included cultivation to the point of sexual intimacy, but that was how it worked out in his case.

“Penny for your thoughts,” she said.

“Oh, nothing important,” he replied as casually as he could. “I have a problem at work and couldn’t help but think a little shop. Sorry.”

“S’OK. What sort of problem?”

“Oh, you know how we keep dossiers on all possible threats to the President’s life. Well, I’ve come across one that I’m supposed to follow up, but it’s a dead end.”

“Anything I might know something about?”

“You see all the Bureau’s directives, don’t you?”

“The important ones. As senior verifier, I check all the big stuff that goes in the computer.”

“Ever hear about something called the Committee?”

“Committee?”

“Something called the Committee of One Thousand.”

“Can’t say I have.”

“Probably a nothing,” he managed to mumble in complete disappointment.

She was silent for a minute before stubbing out her cigarette and turning toward him. She ran her hands across his chest. “We had something a little like that a few months ago. It came out of the Toledo office. The Chief SA there was covering a guy called Rainman. Some retired general that was really right-wing. You know how it is now? We have to cover both sides. Anyway, he wrote a memo for R and D.”

“R and D? What’s that?”

“A memo for record and dissemination. You know, raw intelligence data that we send out to every field office. Anyway, the SA thought this guy was up to something. It was all sort of vague, but we fed it through-channels anyway.”

Cory’s story clicked past Ron’s mind. It was as if he were watching the computer flow of data across a console. Toledo passed by. The man in Toledo. Someone had told that to Cory. “You did say the Toledo office?” he asked as calmly as he could manage.

“Yeah, but you know, there was something strange about that memo. We had it duped and sent out by usual courier to every branch. The next morning we got word to shred every copy. They sent in a senior programmer to erase it from the computer.”

“Probably erroneous data.”

She laughed. “Hell, they leave that stuff in there anyway. This was odd; never had them do it before.”

“Who ordered it?”

“Who knows … but it had to be someone pretty damn high up.” Her fingers were active across his body. “Ron,” she whispered.

“Uh huh?”

“Guess what?”

“I know.” He took her in his arms.

He knew they were professionals the instant the latch splintered and the door clattered back against the wall. Betty had locked it, not out of security, but for privacy from her roommate, who shared the small two-bedroom apartment. The men had silently gained entrance into the outer apartment and were now in the bedroom.

They divided as they rushed through the open door. One went to the right, the other to the left. They both crouched in a shooting position with arms extended and guns braced. They fired simultaneously.

Ron rolled over the side of the bed. His hand brushed the lit bed-lamp to the floor, and the bulb shattered.

He felt the first shot tear through his right shoulder. The impact made his body quiver. He rolled over and fumbled at the pile of clothes on a nearby chair.

He had, out of some sense of decorum, hidden the shoulder holster and weapon from Betty’s sight when they undressed. His weapon was at the bottom of the hastily removed attire. He found it as the second shot entered his body above the right kidney and exited through his abdomen. The force of the impact threw him across the chair, which tilted backward and crashed against the wall.

He had the gun. He flipped off the safety and turned. The light from the living room cast a beam across the room and bracketed the intruders. He had a quick glimpse of Betty. She had pulled the sheet up over her torso as if it were a protective shield. The man on the left shot directly into her forehead.

Ron fired again and again, until the hammer fell on empty chambers.

His first shot missed. The second doubled up one assailant and knocked him backward into the living room. It must have been the third and fourth which caught the second man and threw him against the dresser.

His hand began to tremble, and he let the heavy pistol clatter to the floor.

He felt tired. Very tired. He wanted to close his eyes and stay in this crumpled heap in the corner of the room. A dark warmth spread through him, and his eyes closed.

A lone thought incongruously flickered. He had once read an essay by a medical doctor which stated that the man had never seen anyone die in great anguish and pain. It seemed as if the body provided protective mechanisms and nerve inhibitors for the last hours or minutes. Death arrived peacefully.

Ron knew he was going to die. The massive wound to his abdomen, if it already hadn’t severed a critical artery, would shortly put him into deep shock, with death following through internal hemorrhaging.

He had to reach Cory Williams with what he knew.

Standing was the most difficult physical accomplishment he had ever achieved. He braced his left hand against the wall. There were only minutes to leave the apartment. The discharges from three weapons would have alerted a dozen neighbors. The police would be on their way.

Dressing seemed an impossibility. He held his trousers with his uninjured hand and carefully placed one foot in, and then the other. He managed to clasp the fly closed, but the belt eluded him. He stuffed his feet into shoes but was unable to tie them. The shirt was next. He slipped his arms in the sleeves and pulled it over his shoulders as far as he could.

Needles of pain shot through him. He gasped at their impact. The shirt was on. He buttoned one button and began to shuffle into the living room.

Betty’s roommate lay sprawled near the apartment door. They had used a knife.

Ron left the apartment without bothering to close the door and staggered down the hallway to the elevator. Luckily his car was parked in the rear, not far from the service entrance.

He stood in the small self-service elevator and watched with detachment the blood speckling the floor as it dribbled down his arm, off his fingertips.

A siren wailed in the distance as he stumbled from the elevator to his car.

They sat at the end of the short rickety pier and let their bare feet dangle in the water.

“I feel like we should be doing something,” Ginny said.

“I think we will be when we hear from Sawyer.”

“I’d feel better if he had a telephone out here.”

“He’ll contact us as soon as he finds out anything.”

The dying sun splotched red across the quiet waters of Chesapeake Bay. They sat quietly, shoulders touching, as if soaking energy from the tranquil surroundings. Behind them a fishing shack squatted on a small knoll that rose a few feet above the surrounding marsh. It was an isolated cabin on a minute plot of dry land that Ron Sawyer had purchased several years before as a weekend retreat. It was located far from surrounding neighbors, and reached by walking a long stretch of raised planking over brackish swamp water. Sawyer had told them that the isolation would make this a “safe” house for them. Few of his friends had visited, and he had assured them of their being out of danger.

The sound of a car horn carried across the marsh. It blew again and again.

Cory tensed. He turned to look past the shack, along the empty walkway stretching to the dirt road that provided access to the area.

The car horn again. It blared three quick blasts and then merged into one continuous sound.

Cory scrambled to his feet. “What is it?” Ginny asked in alarm.

“I had better see. Can you cover me?”

“I think so.”

They hurried off the small pier, onto the porch of the shack, where two shotguns rested against the plank wall. Cory snatched the nearest weapon and ran down the planking. Ginny grabbed the second gun, broke it open to check the load as Cory had instructed; and snapped it shut. She lay down on the flooring of the porch and peered around the corner of the shack. She aimed the shotgun along the plank walkway.

The car horn grew louder as Cory reached the end of the walk and neared the dirt road. He saw Sawyer’s Plymouth ahead.

The agent was bent over in the driver’s seat with his forehead resting against the horn ring.

Cory ripped the car door open and pushed Sawyer back against the seat cushions. The horn immediately stopped. There was a pool of blood in the agent’s lap, and one arm was encrusted with the sticky substance.

Ron slowly turned toward Cory. His eyes fought for focus. “Williams?” It was barely a whisper.

“What happened?” Cory nearly stepped back in revulsion as he viewed the gaping exit wound in the man’s stomach. “My God!”

“Listen.…” The voice was fading. “The man in Toledo … A general … Rainman … Committee … ask Crescatt.” The voice faded.

Cory stood stock-still over the dying man. There was a deep exhalation of breath and then a series of sharp intakes. Cory knew that the Cheyne-Stokes breathing was a sign of imminent death.

The agent seemed to gather a final burst of strength. “Lucky they didn’t have automatic weapons, or I’d really be in trouble.”

The breathing ceased entirely, and the agent was dead.

They dragged Sawyer’s body along the planking to the water. Cory weighted it down with a large rock, and they shoved it off the end of the pier. They stood silently watching the water ripples move in concentric circles until the surface was placid again. They turned away and walked back to the Plymouth.

The driver’s seat was sticky with dried blood. Ginny went back to the cabin and returned with a blanket, which she threw over the seat. They drove ten miles to a small village, where an outdoor phone booth stood illuminated in front of a closed drugstore.

The number Crescatt had given Cory was a direct line to the President. They hoped it was secure and untapped.

It was answered on the second ring. “Crescatt.”

“Sawyer is dead.”

There was an audible intake of breath on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry.”

“He was able to say a few words. He said I should call you.”

“What did he say?”

“The man in Toledo is General Rainman.”

“Rainman?”

“Do you know him?”

There was a pause, but when the President spoke, his voice was filled with assurance. “Yes, I know the man. Lieutenant General Lucius Rainman was commander of all our European forces until I fired him.”

Cory now remembered. Last year the President’s removal of General Rainman had received front-page coverage. Rainman, in his overzealousness to educate the troops, had required forced dissemination of extreme right-wing literature. His statements to the press were in marked disagreement with the President’s policy of détente and ratification of SALT III. He had been recalled to Washington on two occasions and reprimanded by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. On his final return to Europe, he had given what had become known as the “Paris News Conference,” during which he had accused Crescatt of being a traitor. The remark had been too much for the Commander-in-Chief, and Rainman had been placed on the retired list of general officers. He had returned to his family home in Toledo.

“It makes a great deal of sense that Rainman is involved with the Committee,” Cory said.

“It certainly does.” The note of command was obvious in the President’s voice. “You must get the list of Committee members from the general somehow, Cory. If we have that list, we can isolate and dismantle their apparatus. It has to be done.”

“I know, sir.”

“Do you have enough money?”

“Sawyer took care of that for us.”

“What else will you need?”

“I don’t know at this time.”

“You must realize the importance of your mission.”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“Whatever you require, phone me on this line. You will do it, Cory.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Yes, I will.”

Cory slowly hung up. Odd that Rainman was called Rook—the Rook was not the most important chess piece. He walked back to the car, where Ginny waited.

They stopped once on their trip to Toledo, Ohio, to eat. At a nearby hardware store, Cory purchased a hacksaw. He spent part of the evening in their motel room, cutting off the barrel on one of Ron Sawyer’s twelve-gauge shotguns. Ginny sewed a long pouch into the interior lining of a hastily purchased trench coat. It was makeshift at best, but the only available weapon at hand.

Finding the Rainman house was not difficult. It was listed in the phone directory, while a city directory listed the address as occupied by Lt. General Lucius Rainman, USA, Ret.

The Rainman home was set back from the curb, on a pleasant tree-lined street in a comfortable old neighborhood of large homes. It was a Victorian three-story dwelling with a long front porch complete with veranda swing and wicker furniture. Cory moved warily up the walk. In the trench coat, with its heavily laden inner pocket, he felt incongruously dressed for the warm afternoon. He reached through the coat pocket and firmly held the pistol grip of the short weapon. If necessary, he would only have to raise the shotgun a few inches and fire through the coat. It would be an extremely lethal weapon at close range.

There was a nostalgic aura about this street and house. It was a visit to time past, to an older America—a replication of bygone days when young men sat on verandas and sipped lemonade while coquettish young women in high shirtwaist blouses sat decorously by their sides. The street belonged to an America that had been obliterated by the rise of suburbs and the deterioration of cities. It recalled a secure and confident time when Teddy Roosevelt carried a big stick and rode in the West, while the American Navy showed the flag with the Great White Fleet.

The feeling dissipated when Cory rang the bell. He heard the chimes sound in the rear of the house. The door was opened by a ramrod-stiff man with graying hair. Cory recognized him as a professional army noncom. The neat blue apron covering the man’s shirt front seemed to verify the fact. He had probably been the general’s orderly and retired simultaneously with his commanding officer.

“General Rainman, please.”

“The general is not at home. Who is calling?”

“Can you tell me when he’s expected?”

“He is away for an indefinite stay. If you have a message, sir?”

“Major Williams, Department of the Army, Sergeant. I have important business with the general.”

His guess had been correct. The man in the apron straightened to attention at the command. “Yes, sir.”

“It is imperative that I reach the general.”

“He is at the Wiltshire Club, in New York City, sir. I can get the address for you.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Cory turned and walked abruptly down the sidewalk. He got into the front seat of Ron Sawyer’s car and signaled for Ginny to leave. As they pulled away from the curb he saw the ex-sergeant look after them quizzically and then abruptly slam the door. Cory knew he would make a phone call.

“Where to?” Ginny asked.

“The library. Wherever it is.”

Cory felt the tentacles of a massive headache encircling his head in a relentless grip. He pushed back from the microfilm machine and pressed fingers to his forehead.

The newspaper files in the public library had provided what he wanted to know. He had searched the indices for any information the New York Times might have on the Wiltshire Club, and looked at all recent references to General Rainman in the local papers.

He stared down at his legal pad in front of the microfilm reader. His last notes were on the top page and concerned the Wiltshire Club, in New York City. He had found a feature article a month old, concerning the club. He scanned the notes again:

… A newly formed private club that will not only be a bastion of the wealthy and powerful, but probably one of the most exclusive enclaves on the Atlantic seaboard. Membership is not necessarily based on wealth, but will be extended to army officers, police officials, and governmental bureaucrats. Achievement and potential will be the criteria for membership. No one seems to know, or admit to knowing, who the members are and exactly how they are selected.

“It is an exclusive club,” the article concluded, “shrouded in mystery.”

Cory turned the page. He knew damn well what the criteria for membership at the Wiltshire Club were. It was chilling that the Committee felt confident enough to bring its recruitment out of hiding.

The remainder of his notes concerned feature stories the local papers had run on one of their famous home-town sons, General Lucius Rainman. The notes were succinct:

… A firm believer in old fashioned patriotism, the American way, and a strong defense posture … “Certain insidious elements are at work undermining the government … and these reach into the very highest ranks of government.” He is a man often found in the enlisted men’s clubs of his command during off-duty hours, playing a dozen or more chess games at one time … hardly ever defeated … “Sharpens the mind to a high degree,” the general was quoted as saying, concerning his chess prowess.

There was an article with yesterday’s dateline.

… General Rainman will be leaving for an extended stay at an undisclosed location, where he will visit with high-ranking South American military officers who are on an “unofficial” visit to the United States.

Cory tore the notes off the pad and rewound the last reel. There was something going on in New York, and General Rainman and the Committee were deeply involved.

Hand in hand they walked along the quiet cross-town street near Gramercy Park, in New York City. A light rain had recently fallen, and the city had a clean, fresh smell.

Ginny gently moved her hand and created a swinging motion to their clasp. He looked at her. She was staring straight ahead. A small smile teased the ends of her mouth. He knew she was indulging in a daydream and hoped that it would not be shattered by the impending violence.

They passed the Wiltshire Club. A doorman stood stalwartly in front of the brownstone building. The windows of the first two floors of the club were crisscrossed with heavy metal grating, ornamental in appearance but obviously strong and burglar-proof.

They ambled slowly on the opposite side of the street from the club. The doorman watched them warily. It was not the look of an obsequious servant. The only designation of the club was a small brass plaque near the front door, which simply read:

WILTSHIRE CLUB

Members Only

They walked past the club and down another block before Cory broke the silence. “I wonder about inside security.”

“What did you say?”

“The doorman looks big enough to play defense for the Steelers. I wonder what other security they have inside.”

“Why don’t we find out?”

“Easy. We just walk in.”

Ginny laughed. “Of course. I never heard of a private club that didn’t need temporary help, particularly if they have a group of visitors from South America. The pay is lousy.”

He held her arm. “When can you try?”

“In the morning.”

CHAPTER 24

Cory waited for Ginny at the north end of Gramercy Park. The weather hadn’t improved, and a light rain splattered the sidewalk around him. The sawed-off shotgun was still in the interior pouch of his trench coat.

She had left at seven-thirty that morning. The day had passed anxiously. His worry over her well-being precluded any attempt at concentration. Finally, he had given up and gone to a movie on Forty-second Street. It didn’t help.

He could think of nothing else. Suppose they “made” her? She would be trapped inside the massive bulk of the Wiltshire Club.

She had laughed at his fears. “They need help They always do. Particularly the likes of me, right?”

“Right,” he mumbled.

“I’ll be back in an hour unless I get a job.”

The door closed, and she was gone.

The day dragged on interminably. The Committee would have no reason to believe Cory was in the city. As far as anyone except Crescatt was concerned, he and Ginny had dropped out of sight.

General Rainman had come to the city for some sort of international meeting of the Committee. There would be security at the Wiltshire Club tight enough to keep out unwelcome intruders, but not a planned onslaught.

He walked around the park for the fifth time. Two women pushing baby carriages gave him a sidelong glance.

At five-fifteen, finally, he saw her hurrying down a side street toward the small park. She smiled as the distance between them closed

They sat in the back booth of a workingman’s bar on Second Avenue. She was flushed with excitement.

“Did you see Rainman?”

“Absolutely. He played chess most of the day.”

“Are you sure it was him?”

“I couldn’t miss him. It was the same man we saw in the news photos in Toledo.”

“What kind of job do you have? What about security around the general?”

She laughed. “Let me tell it in order, OK?”

“From the top.” He leaned back in the booth and drank a draft beer. A sense of relief at her safety washed over him.

“I told you they needed help. Well, I work the bar room, on tables, from eleven until two. Before and after that I clean rooms upstairs.”

“Minimum wage?” He smiled tightly.

“But of course. There are two entrances to the building: the front, which we passed on the street with the doorman; and there’s an alley two buildings down that goes behind the club and has an entrance into the rear of the club.”

“Any guards on that entrance?”

“Two. Right inside the rear door. They carry some sort of short rifle.”

“Rifles?”

“I think so. In the front there’s more than just the doorman. Inside, in the vestibule, a guy sits at a desk. He has one of those funny looking guns in the desk well near his feet. There are two more men in the hall that runs off the vestibule.”

“My God! It’s as well guarded as Camp David.”

“They have metal detectors in the front hallway and in the back, where the help comes in. Everyone’s bag is searched, and they frisk you. You have to walk under a metal detector … you know, like they have at airline terminals.”

“Did you see anyone else inside the building who appears to be security? Besides those in the hall?”

“About ten or twelve. Some of them wear uniforms and speak Spanish. They all seem to carry the same kind of gun.”

“Christ! They act like they expect an armed invasion.”

“There are several older men around who wear uniforms or dark suits. I guess that’s the contingent from South America.”

“That might account for some of their security. I don’t see how Rainman could be alarmed.”

“Anything else you’d like to know?”

“Tell me as much as you can about the interior of the club.”

She borrowed a pencil from the bartender and made quick slashing line drawings on napkins. It was a fairly detailed account of the building’s interior, and Cory was amazed at her powers of observation.

The Wiltshire Club was located in a building originally designed by Stanford White. Immediately beyond the entrance, at street level, was a wide marble vestibule with a winding staircase to the upper floors. The man with the gun behind the desk was at the far end of the vestibule. Two hallways ran off the side of the entryway to the bar room, reading room, and game room. Kitchens, offices, and storage were at the rear of the house and in the cellar. The upper floors were reached by the front or rear staircases or a small self-service elevator. Ginny thought that the upper floors were all rooms and suites for overnight guests.

From her description, armed men were patrolling every entrance, hallway, and were stationed at critical points in the building.

It was an armed camp.

“And they search you when you enter?”

“Yes.”

“The weapons these men carry, do they look like this?” Cory took the napkins and pencil and made several drawings of automatic weapons and machine pistols.

She recognized the fifth drawing. “That’s the one. That’s the type of gun everyone seems to have.”

Cory nodded. It was the drawing of a Kalashnikov automatic assault rifle. The barrel and trigger housing mechanism were little more than twenty inches long, with a shoulder stock of tubular steel that folded back. It fired thirty-five rounds at single intervals or nine hundred rounds per minute on full automatic. It was an extremely lethal weapon, and exactly the one he would have chosen for men guarding individuals in the close quarters of an enclosed building.

“How do they explain the South Americans and guards to the help?”

“There’s a big sign on the employees’ bulletin board, near the time clock. They call it an international invitational chess meet and request efficient service. When they hired me, they said that some of the visitors were from overseas, and they were taking precautions against terrorists.”

“Terrific,” Cory said.

“Crescatt here.”

“I’ve found him, sir.”

“Where?” The President’s question was curt. Cory sensed an inner tension in the man.

“At a place called the Wiltshire Club, in New York. It’s got a dozen guards and is practically impregnable.”

“We must have that list, Cory. General Rainman either has it or knows where it is. Every organization has to operate with some authority, and Rainman is our key.”

“If I could have two squads from the Eighty-second Airborne company you have at Camp David, we could make a full frontal assault with grenades and automatic fire. There’s a doorman to be taken out, and several men downstairs.”

“Impossible! We can’t risk it.”

“I don’t see how else.”

“Cory, I was in Division G-2 during the Korean War. I know the work and training required to mount such a mission.”

“There are Rangers and Green Berets at Fort Benning who are trained for this sort of thing.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t get them. We can’t risk going through Pentagon channels, and there’s no way even the President can go directly to a field commander. You’ve done a lot of resourceful things recently, and I need one more from you. We must have that list if we are to survive.”

It was to be a one-man show.

“All right, sir,” Cory said slowly. “Then I’ll need two items.”

“Which are?”

“A grease gun and …”

“Grease gun?” The President seemed nonplussed for a moment. Then he remembered it was a .45 caliber automatic weapon designed for resistance fighters in World War II.

“Yes. It’s automatic fire and lethal, but small enough to be disassembled.”

“What else?”

“Drugs. Something like a truth serum, with instructions on how to administer it.”

The President thought for a moment. “I think I know how to arrange the machine gun, but the drugs are another problem, as is delivery. We’re going to have to take another person in on this. It’s a risk but will have to be done. I’m going to request to see my personal physician, Colonel Halliburton. He can provide the drugs and be our messenger. Where do you want delivery made?”

Cory gave the President the address of their hotel in Brooklyn Heights.

He walked from the phone booth, deep in thought. How in hell was he going to get into the Wiltshire Club and get Rainman out to a “safe house” for administration of the drug?

Colonel Edward Halliburton wore bright yellow slacks, an off-white shirt, dark blue blazer with brass buttons, and a regimental tie. He had a long shock of brown hair and a smile that cleaved his handsome face in two. He was deeply tanned, with an athletic build maintained over countless hours on the tennis court. The man reeked of ingenuousness. Cory understood why Crescatt trusted him. The good-looking young colonel seemed incapable of any deviousness outside of occasionally sandbagging a doubles match.

Halliburton lay the attaché case on the bed and shook Ginny’s hand. “I’m Halliburton. Is Williams here?”

“Right here.” Cory stepped out of the bathroom with the sawed-off shotgun. The physician seemed startled at the weapon and couldn’t keep his eyes off the lethal device. “Did you bring the things?”

“Sure did.” He unsnapped the case. “Had to take a train. I’m sure the airlines would have arrested me on the spot. One .45 caliber automatic weapon.” He handed the grease gun to Cory. The weapon, with its stock folded, was not much longer than the shotgun. He watched as Cory unsnapped the stock. “It does look like a grease gun, doesn’t it?” He bent back into the case. “Five full magazines, several hypodermic needles, and a supply of Succinylcholine Chloride and Triopental.”

“Why two drugs?”

“Two different uses.”

“How’s that?”

“The Triopental is a narcotic, and if used properly in the right dosage will act as the truth serum you wanted.”

“The Chloride?”

“Succinylcholine Chloride is a powerful muscle relaxant. If administered in a massive dosage it will cause nearly instantaneous death. No trace of the drug can be found in the body at post-mortem.”

“Terrific. How do I use the truth serum and in what quantity?”

The doctor’s smile faded and was instantly replaced with a professional mantle. He held up a syringe. “This is the needle. How’s that for openers?” And he explained the process.

“Suppose I want to put a man out for five or six hours?” Cory asked after the drug orientation was complete.

“Physical build, age, and that sort of thing would have a lot to do with it.”

“They’re big men in their late twenties or early thirties.”

“Use the Triopental; increase the dosage about this much.” Halliburton demonstrated by sticking a syringe through a rubber top of a drug vial and pulling back the plunger.

Cory took the hypodermic and held it a moment before plunging it into Halliburton’s arm.

“Hey!” The doctor looked down at the hypodermic protruding from his arm in astonishment. “That was a rotten thing to do. I have a tennis da—” His head lolled to the side as he slowly folded over onto the bed.

“Why did you do that?” Ginny asked.

“Crescatt trusted him, so I do, too, but we’re going to keep him under until this is over.”

“You’re not going to hurt him?”

“Good God, no!”

“How are we going to get into the club, Cory?”

“You’re already in. You work there, remember?”

“They search me when I report to work.”

“A full body search?”

“No, but they have a security matron who pats you down. You also have to walk under those metal detectors, and they open all handbags and packages.”

“I think I have a way to get in. All I want you to do is take in the drugs.”

“I told you; you’re not listening. They search you.”

“You also said it wasn’t a full body search.”

Ginny blushed. “Okay. We get the drugs in, but how do we get a zonked General Rainman out?”

“We don’t.”

“But then …”

“Here’s what I want you to do …”

Cory stood in the alleyway that ran behind the Wiltshire Club. He wore dirty coveralls and cradled the grease gun in a large tarpaulin. He placed the tarpaulin down on a garbage can and waited.

It was twenty minutes before a van backed into the alley. Its driver stepped from the cab, came around the side of the vehicle, and opened the rear doors. He rummaged in the back compartment as Cory approached.

The man’s shoulders tensed as Cory neared. He picked up something from inside the truck and whirled to face Cory. Deep streaks of anger coursed over the workman’s face as he waved a length of pipe. “Back off, buddy.”

“What the hell,” Cory responded. “Did you think I was going to mug you? I need a match.”

The man glanced over Cory’s shoulder and, not seeing any cohorts lurking in the shadows, seemed to relax. He stuck the pipe under his arm and searched in his pockets.

Cory took two rapid steps forward. With his right hand he knocked the pipe from the man’s arm. With his left he jabbed the hypodermic syringe through the cloth of the man’s coveralls, deep into his thigh.

The workman was stronger than Cory expected. “What the fuck!” He shoved Cory in the chest and stumbled backward. He snatched up the pipe and took two steps toward Cory before he sank to his knees with a befuddled look on his face and then pitched forward onto the alley pavement.

Cory pulled him by the armpits to the van and levered him into the back of the truck. He quickly retrieved the tarpaulin and machine gun from the garbage can. He spread the tarp over the unconscious plumber and, working at the bed of the truck, began completely to strip the weapon into its component parts.

The back of the van was filled with tools, heavy metal tripods, and various lengths of pipes. When the automatic weapon was stripped into its smallest components, Cory pulled a heavy toolbox across the flooring. He flipped open the lid and opened the box. It contained dozens upon dozens of valves, gauges, assorted tools, and metal snakes. He sprinkled the machine-gun parts into the several compartments of the toolbox. The largest of the dismantled pieces was the weapon’s short barrel, which he hid under half a dozen lengths of pipe of similar size. The heaviest piece left was the bolt, which he secreted under a collection of bolts and nuts.

Cory closed the van door after taking the ignition keys from the pocket of the unconscious plumber. He walked toward the employee entrance of the Wiltshire Club. The whole operation had taken four minutes.

The rear entrance of the club closely resembled a speakeasy door from the twenties. Cory knocked and leaned nonchalantly against the wall. He suspected there might be a television camera hanging under an eave. When the door was not opened, he knocked again, angrily.

The door opened a few inches. A heavy chain blocked further movement. “Who is it?” The voice was guttural, tinted with a New York accent.

“AA Plumbers. You called about a problem?” No answer. “You lettin’ me in, or do I go to the next job?”

“Keep your shirt on, buddy.” The latch chain fell away and the door was opened by a large man in a security guard’s uniform. A Latin-appearing man lounged against a far wall and wore combat boots, fatigues, and carried a Kalashnikov rifle slung across his front. His fingers brushed against the trigger guard.

Cory stepped inside. The heavy weight of the toolbox tilted one shoulder to the side.

An alarm went off.

The man with the Kalashnikov snapped the bolt and pointed the weapon at Cory. Another man with a machine pistol appeared in a doorway across the room.

The security guard at the door slammed Cory against the wall. Cory instinctively took “the position.” He spread his feet apart, pushed his palms up against the wall, and bent his head between his shoulders. The guarded expertly patted down his body. “He’s clean.”

“The alarm?” another guard said in heavily accented English.

“You got a metal detector, or something?” Cory asked.

“Shut up!” the guard snapped as he pressed Cory’s head against the wall.

“I got my toolbox with me, dummy.” Cory heard them open the toolbox. Hands rippled through the inner contents. Tools and pipes clinked together.

“The joker’s carrying a hundret pounds of iron. No wonder the alarm went off.”

“You guys want your toilet fixed or not?” Cory turned from the wall and closed the toolbox. “I’m leaving. I don’t got to put up with this kinda shit.”

“So, go fix,” the man with the New York accent said. “Diaz, stick with him. It’s one of the third-floor johns.”

The guard with the assault rifle nodded and slipped the weapon from his shoulder. He gave the rifle to the third guard and replaced it with a billy club. They were professional, Cory thought. They would not allow one of the armed security force to be alone with a visitor and risk the possibility of being overpowered.

The took the small self-service elevator to the third floor. The compartment was barely large enough for both men and Cory’s toolbox.

The third-floor corridor resembled the hallway in a small but elegant hotel. The deeply carpeted floor ran between mutely painted walls decorated with fine hunting prints. A door, midway down the hall, was ajar. The guard gestured toward it with his club.

Cory entered the bedroom and passed through it into the bath. He set the toolbox down on the toilet seat with a grunt. The guard lounged in the doorway, although he kept sufficient distance from his charge so that he couldn’t be overpowered without having time to react.

Cory kept his back to the guard as he rummaged through the toolbox with one hand. With his other he felt below the rim of the toilet seat. The syringe was taped where she had said it would be. He removed it from its hiding place and uncapped the tip of the needle. He depressed the plunger until a few drops dribbled from the head of the needle. He held the needle across his abdomen and doubled over and gasped.

The guard stood erect. “What is it?”

“It’s my heart again.” He groaned.

The guard stepped forward and stuck his club in his belt. He reached for Cory’s shoulder.

The vein on the back of the man’s hand stood out in bold relief as Cory jabbed the needle in and depressed the plunger.

“What?” The guard withdrew his fingers as if stung by a bee.

Cory turned to face him. “It’s all right. It’s going to be all right,” he said in the calmest voice he could muster.

The guard’s eyes were beginning to glaze, but his strength and coordination were sufficient for him to unsling the billy club and swing it in an arc toward Cory’s head.

Cory stepped back. The guard swung the club again. Cory had to take another backward step, and he fell back into the tub with his feet canted toward the ceiling.

He watched in horrified fascination as the guard raised his weapon over his head with both hands. He was helpless and vulnerable in the tub. He saw the hairs on the man’s hands in complete detail as he stepped forward for the lethal blow.

The guard’s eyes seemed to roll back into his head. The club slipped from his fingers, and he crumpled in a heap on the floor.

It took Cory a few moments to scramble from the tub and grab the unconscious man’s feet. He tugged the body across the floor and shoved it under the bed. He unmade the bedding in order to let a sheet drape across the side, onto the floor, where it hid the body.

He went back into the bathroom to reassemble the machine gun from the parts interspersed throughout the toolbox.

The weapon was half assembled when he heard a tap on the bedroom door.

Two quick knocks, a pause, and two more. It was their prearranged signal. He let her in and locked the door.

She threw her arms around him. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” he whispered. “Where’s the general?”

“It’s after two. He’s in his suite, down the hall. He will probably stay in there until four.”

“I have to hurry.” He went back into the bathroom and continued reassembling the weapon.

She stood in the doorway behind him. “The plumbing thing went all right; huh?”

“What’d you do to it?”

“Towels down the john.”

“Fine.” He turned his attention back to the weapon and screwed the barrel into the trigger housing. He worked the bolt until he was satisfied with the action and then slid a magazine in. It made a click as the two final pieces engaged. The weapon was ready for use. He glanced at his watch: 2:10.

Ginny was busy at the bed, folding blankets into long vertical forms. She laid the first blanket over his outstretched arms, then the grease gun, and covered it with a second blanket. The weapon was cocked. Cory could fire by simply reaching his hand into the center of the folded blankets.

“Let’s go,” he said.

She stood by the door as her breath came in shallow gasps. “One of the other girls told me that Rainman spends from two until four in his room. He should be there now.”

“I’m ready.”

“I hope I am,” Ginny said as she slowly opened the door. She relocked it behind them with her passkey.

She walked ahead of Cory, toward the end of the hall, and stopped before the last door. She hesitated a moment with the passkey in her hand until Cory came up behind her and nodded. His hand reached between the blankets and curled over the trigger of the grease gun.

The door silently swung open, and they stepped inside.

They entered a subdued living room. Through a partially open door to the right, they could see into a bedroom.

“Who is it?” It was a deep and resonant voice from the bedroom.

“Maid,” Ginny replied. Her voice slightly trembled.

“Come back later.”

Cory let the blankets fall away from his weapon as he stepped into the bedroom. He aimed directly at General Lucius Rainman’s head.

The general was propped up in bed, dictating notes into a cassette recorder. He looked at Cory over the rim of his reading glasses and reached for a revolver on the table by his side.

Cory covered the few steps to the table in two bounds and knocked the pistol to the floor. He placed the grease gun’s barrel against the general’s head.

“You’re Williams,” Rainman said without fear.

“That’s right.”

“They said you might come after me.”

“Take it easy. Keep calm and you may live.”

General Lucius Rainman slowly removed his glasses and placed them on the side table. He was a large man still in good physical condition, with a flat stomach and broad shoulders. His hair had thinned until only two streaks covered the side of his head. His eyes were slate gray and unfeeling. Thin lips gave his face a strong but cruel cast.

“You show great ingenuity in getting this far, Williams. It will be interesting to see how you get out. Are you prepared to negotiate?”

“Possibly,” Cory replied and nodded toward Ginny. She began to prepare the syringe on the far side of the general. “What do you have to offer?”

“Your life. I guarantee your safe conduct from this building in return for my own life.”

“Do you really think you’re in position to negotiate anything?”

“You fire that weapon, and this room will be filled with armed men in less than thirty seconds.”

“True.” Cory nodded, and Ginny plunged the needle into the general’s arm.

Rainman turned to watch the needle in his arm with interest. “Have you killed me?”

“No.”

“Scopolamine, I suppose.”

“That sort of thing.”

Rainman’s eyes closed, and he sank back on the pillow. Cory put the grease gun on the floor within easy reach. Ginny locked the suite’s door and picked up the general’s tape recorder, rewound the reel, and started it forward again.

Dr. Halliburton’s instructions had been laboriously thorough, and Cory began the procedure.

“Lucius, do you hear me?”

“Yes.” The voice was weak and distant.

“You wish to talk with me. You have something to tell me.”

“I have something to tell you.”

“You are a member of the Committee of One Thousand.”

“They are true patriots, and I am one of them.”

“You are Rook.”

“Yes, I am Rook.”

“You are Control for the other members of the Committee.”

“I am Control.”

“You know where the list of members is located.”

“There is no hidden list.”

“You know where the list is. You have hidden the list of members and you are going to tell me where it is.”

“There is no hidden list.”

Ginny and Cory looked at each other with failure in their eyes.

CHAPTER 25

Blood pounded in Cory’s ears. He had the same feeling of unreality he had felt twice before when this present sequence of events began. There had to be a list! Someone, somewhere, was in possession of a list that named every member of the Committee.

The general’s voice began to fade. “No written list,” he repeated again as if trying to gain Cory’s approbation.

Cory walked bleakly to the window to lean on the sill and look out.

“We know there isn’t any written list, General,” he heard Ginny say in a soft voice. “But the names. You know the names.”

“Rook knows the names.”

“Give us the names. Start from the beginning.”

“Yes … the names … Abrams, Albert, Department of Defense, Office of Strategic Planning. Anderson, Donald, President, Bank of Norristown …” Other names followed in an even monotone and in complete alphabetical order.

Cory turned from the window to watch Ginny hold the cassette recorder close to the general’s lips as the names rattled on at staccato pace. She gave a quick, triumphant glance up at Cory and then looked back at the recorder.

The names continued. Cory was amazed at the man’s mental ability. Memorization of related items was difficult enough, but a list containing random sequences was a monumental achievement. The general had played chess for years and honed this unique ability.

Hundreds of names continued. “Smythe, Al, Special Counsel to the President.” Other names followed.

Cory stepped forward and put his hand on Ginny’s shoulder. When the general stopped for breath between his relentless list, he spoke.

“Who is Queen? You are Rook, but one more powerful. The Queen?”

“Smythe, Al, Special Counsel to the President …” The list continued again.

And Smythe was the President’s confidant and was now at Camp David.

Cory didn’t hear the remainder of the list. Over and over again he heard Smythe’s name. He now realized that the general’s presence at the Wiltshire Club and the security force was not ordinary precaution. Rainman had left Toledo because he had been warned by Smythe. The professional guards throughout this building were for one purpose—to keep Cory from reaching Rainman.

They had done it. They had gotten the list. Now it was a question of getting out alive with the information.

“We’re done. I’ve got it,” Ginny said. She snapped the cassette from the recorder and slipped it in her dress. “We’re done. I’ve got it all.”

“Put him under all the way, and let’s get out of here.”

“Are we going to use the muscle relaxant?”

“And kill him?”

“Yes.”

Cory looked down at the sleeping general. The man was unconscious and helpless. He was the same man who had instigated assassination. He was the same person who had ordered them killed. His death would mean the loss of the list of Committee members to anyone else.

He prepared the needle of Succinylcholine Chloride. Ginny stepped away. He leaned over the general. The hypodermic syringe was inches away from the man’s arm.

He couldn’t do it. There had been too many deaths. There had been too many killings. He could still see the crumpled form of Ruth Lewis as she died from a bullet fired by her husband’s gun.

He dropped the needle and called to Ginny hoarsely, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Cory placed the grease gun between two folded blankets while Ginny picked up the general’s handgun from the floor and stuffed it in her uniform pocket.

They slipped from the room and locked the door behind them. The empty corridor stretched sixty feet to the stairwells and elevator doors. They walked at a brisk pace, trying to appear casual.

“We’ll take the stairs,” Cory said as he stepped in front of Ginny and motioned her back. He pressed back against the wall near the back stairwell and cautiously pushed open the fire door.

The landing was empty. He had stepped through the door and turned to beckon Ginny, when the elevator door opened.

Wilton James, the ever-present pipe drooping from his mouth, emerged from the elevator. Instant recognition flooded across his face as he looked at Ginny. He immediately drew his service revolver and leveled it at Cory’s back.

“Stay where you are, Williams.”

The three people in the hall knew that the police inspector’s command was the briefest of reprieves. It was only a formality given because of decades of careful police procedure. There was no reason for the Committee to keep Cory alive. In a heartbeat James would fire into Cory’s back at point-blank range.

Cory was half turned away from the elevator door. The grease gun pointed away from James. There would not be time for him to turn and swing the weapon toward the police inspector.

“You should have killed me when you had the chance,” Wilton James said.

Ginny shot three times in rapid succession through the pocket of her uniform.

James’s revolver slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor. He staggered back into the elevator with a look of complete astonishment. His back hit the wall of the small elevator, and he slowly slid to the floor. The door automatically closed as the car started down.

They stood frozen for moments before Cory gasped, “Hurry.” They went through the stairwell door and down the metal stairs.

They had descended one flight when they heard cries from the front vestibule. The elevator had arrived downstairs, and the door opened to reveal Wilton James’s body.

The alarm would be given, and they would be boxed in the stairwell. They could already hear the elevator ascending to the third floor and knew that it would contain at least two guards with cocked weapons. Others in the security force would be coming up both flights of stairs.

They had one more flight to go when they heard the clatter of heavy boots on the landing below.

Cory waved Ginny back and crouched by the open railing. He waited until the guards were halfway up the flight, and then stood to fire a long burst from his machine gun.

The weapon bucked on full automatic as bullets ricocheted from metal walls and whined off in a dozen tangents.

The two men with Kalashnikov rifles crumpled in rag heaps as the .45 projectiles stitched across their chests.

There was a final guard by the metal detector near the rear door. Cory fired the remainder of the clip. The grease gun vibrated in his hands and swept upward until it was empty.

They went through the rear door and ran down the alley. Cory threw her the truck keys as he fumbled to place a fresh magazine in the machine gun.

As Ginny began to turn the ignition, Cory saw the Wiltshire Club doorman rush into the alley entrance. The man’s jacket was torn open, and he fumbled at a shoulder holster. Cory fired through the windshield of the van.

“Go!” he shouted, and the truck leapt forward.

They abandoned the van, with its still-sleeping owner, at a subway entrance and ran down the steps and boarded the first train that arrived. They changed trains twice before Cory was satisfied they had shaken any followers and felt safe enough to take a final train to Brooklyn.

He found a phone booth in a tobacco shop near Court Street, in Brooklyn, and dropped the necessary quarters into the slot for the call to Maryland.

A cautious voice answered. “Yes.”

“Get me Crescatt.”

“Ah, it must be Mr. Williams?”

“Who’s this?”

“Al Smythe, Cory. You don’t mind the familiar, do you?”

“Fuck you, Smythe. Where’s Crescatt?”

“It’s over, Cory. The game is ended.”

“I’ve got the list of the Committee, Smythe, and you’re on it. Get the President on this line.”

“President Crescatt is not available. This line is going to be disconnected when this call is terminated. They called and told me about your visit to the Wiltshire Club. The general is still groggy.”

“He gave me the names.”

“You’re very unimaginative, Williams. I don’t need the list. There never should have been a list in the first place, and your possession of it is meaningless.”

“I have names and locations.”

“And who will believe you? You have no credibility, my boy. Accumulation of names is meaningless, with your lack of veracity. If you are captured, which you shall be, and if you are still miraculously alive, who will believe your sense less prattling? They didn’t believe you the first time.”

“Crescatt will.”

“The President will not.”

Cory hung up. It was obvious what was going to happen, and he did not want to run the risk of a trace. He went outside, where Ginny waited, and took her hand as they walked down Montague Street.

“Want to take a walk on the Promenade?”

“What’s that?”

“A raised walkway that overlooks the New York skyline.”

“Sounds great.” They walked quietly for a moment. Cory took the laundry bag containing the field-stripped grease gun from her shoulder and threw it over his. “What did he say?”

“He wasn’t able to come to the phone.”

“Are you going to call back?”

“Not quite.” Cory began a chuckle which turned into laughter.

“What’s so funny?”

“I just had a thought. I think you and I are going to have to overthrow the government … you, me and one drugged, tennis-playing doctor.”

Dr. Edward Halliburton sat up against the headboard of the bed. He held a Styrofoam cup of black coffee in one hand and one of fresh orange juice in the other. He alternately drank from each and cursed Cory in English, French, and a few words of unrecognizable Spanish. He was a very angry man.

“And why, you raving psychopath, would the President have sent me if I couldn’t be trusted?”

“I couldn’t take any chances.”

“A layman administering drugs to a doctor! You blithering idiot!”

“We did it the way you said.”

“Thank God for that.” He drank more coffee and orange juice and seemed to calm slightly. “Did it work?”

“What?”

“The goddamn secret operation you two hydocephalics are involved in.”

“Yes,” Cory answered. “We got what we came for. However, we have run into what is usually termed an unexpected difficulty.”

“You’re going to have to help us, Doctor,” Ginny said.

“The last time I helped you two, I got myself Mickey Finned for thirty-six hours.”

“This is going to be even more dangerous.”

“I wouldn’t go to a cartoon film festival with you two creeps.”

“You mut know the layout of Camp David fairly well.”

“Crescatt loves the place. He drags us up there about every third weekend.” Halliburton drank more coffee.

“Does anyone know why you came to New York?”

“No one except Crescatt even knows I came to New York.”

“Were you missed at Camp David?”

“I signed out for two days. They sent a backup physician from Bethesda.”

“Then you have access back into the compound?”

“Of course! What the hell! As soon as I’m able to walk, I’m leaving you two to whatever you’re up to.”

Cory began to clean the grease gun with patches cut from a T-shirt and a coat-hanger cleaning rod. He dismantled and oiled each piece carefully. “After I’ve finished telling you my story, Ginny is going to play you a cassette. You will know how we obtained the information, because you gave us the resources.”

“The drugs?”

“Yes. And you also know that the President trusted us.”

“God only knows why.”

“You know he does, because he sent you here with the drugs and the gun.”

“I’m not going to repeat myself.”

“When I have finished, and when you have asked all the questions you want, you, good doctor, are going to help us get into Camp David.”

Doctor Halliburton put his empty cups down and looked slowly from Ginny to Cory. He sighed. “God only knows what’s coming, but lay it on me.”

CHAPTER 26

President Orville Crescatt looked out the window, over the rolling Maryland hills. His fingers lightly drummed the desk top where a phone had once rested. “What happened to the phone, Al?”

Al Smythe crumpled an empty package of cigarettes and opened his third new package, for the day. “Which one? Or do you mean that private line on the desk?”

“That’s the one.” Crescatt kept staring out the window.

“Don’t know. Some Signal Corps guys were in here yesterday, fooling around with the communications equipment. Want me to check into it?”

“Yes, do that for me.” He turned to face his advisor, who sat in an easy chair with his legs crossed. “I’m supposed to be one of the most heavily guarded persons in the world, Al. Why is it that I feel so insecure?”

Smythe puffed smoke rings. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that sort of insecurity didn’t strike all the men who hold your office.”

“The disappearing phone is the one Williams calls on.”

“Oh, was it? I didn’t know that, Orville. I wasn’t a party to any of those arrangements. I’ll make a note to get it back.”

“Yes, thank you.” Orville Crescatt sat in the desk chair and swiveled to face his aide. “You must get tired of playing second fiddle all the time, Al.”

Smythe stubbed the half-smoked cigarette out in a coffee cup. “It’s the nature of the game, Orville. We can’t all get elected.”

“I guess not. What do you think of Cory Williams and this Committee business?”

“To tell you the truth, I think it’s all a bunch of crap. I think Williams is irrational, and has been since you did a number on his dad. I think that things are scrambled in his mind.”

“Interesting that you feel that. What do you think I should do?”

There was a pause. When Smythe finally spoke, his words were carefully modulated. “I think you should resign for reasons of health, Mr. President.”

The two men looked at each other across the rustic room.

It was a small Maryland airport. A wind sock hung listlessly from a pole at the far corner of the lone concrete runway. Half a dozen small planes, their wheels chocked, were tied down on a grass meridian not far from the combination hangar/office.

Cory parked near the hangar and entered the office. A youthful-looking man wearing a worn leather flying jacket and cowboy boots had his feet propped on a cluttered desk. He swung them to the floor and turned as they entered.

“What can I do for you folks?”

“We’d like to take a flight.”

“I’d be happy to oblige, but the only thing I have available doesn’t have a radio, so we can’t fly at night. Matter of fact, I was just about to close for the day.”

Cory looked out the dusty window toward the darkening field. “Yes, I can see how that would be a problem.” He turned back to the pilot-manager. “You arrange for parachuting, too?”

“We have a jump club that meets here on weekends. They give instructions, and I do the flying.”

“They store their equipment here?”

“Some of it. I have a corner in the hangar reserved for them. Most of the jumpers have their own chutes, but we keep a few spare for lessons.”

“Fine.” Cory pulled General Rainman’s automatic pistol from his pocket and pointed it at the pilot. “In two hours we’re taking a flight.”

The flyer looked at the small pistol in fascination. “I told you, I can’t do that. It’s against the rules.”

“I imagine it is,” Cory replied. “Why don’t you make us a pot of fresh coffee while we’re waiting?”

The guards had been doubled at the front gate of Camp David. When Edward Halliburton braked his Porsche to a halt by the main sentry house, he was approached on either side by soldiers carrying automatic rifles. A sergeant cautiously approached the driver’s side with a clipboard in hand. He bent to look through the window at Halliburton.

“Name, please?”

“Halliburton, Edward, Colonel.”

The sergeant glanced down at his clipboard, checked off a name, and stood erect to salute Halliburton. “Yes, sir. Please proceed, Colonel, sir.”

Halliburton threw the Porsche in gear and screeched past the sentry point. He parked his car and entered Laurel Cottage. Orville Crescatt and Elizabeth were sitting at opposite ends of the couch, staring into an empty fireplace.

Crescatt beckoned the doctor into one of the bedrooms. Liz followed; her eyes were red-rimmed, and Halliburton suspected that she had been crying.

There was an urgency to the President’s question. “Does Cory have the list?”

“Yes, sir. He does. Let me ask you a question, sir. Is this guy Williams for real?”

“More than you realize.”

“Then his story is true?”

“I have very good reason to believe it is. However, I’m not so sure at this point if it will do us any good.”

“He had a few messages for you he said were important.”

“Yes?”

“Well, to begin with, and I find this hard to believe, but I’m only relaying information that …”

“For God’s sake, Doctor. What is it?”

“He says that Al Smythe is on the list.” Orville Crescatt’s abrupt laugh startled. Halliburton. “I didn’t realize I had said something funny.”

“You haven’t, Doctor. You really haven’t. It’s only that that little nugget of intelligence is a day too late.”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“Tomorrow. At three in the afternoon, I am going to resign my office for reasons of health. Under the terms of the Constitution, the Vice-President will assume office.”

Halliburton stood up in shock. “That’s ridiculous. I, as your personal physician, can vouch for your health.”

“I think, Doctor, that you are going to be replaced.”

“Mr. President, this is ridiculous. It smacks of coup d’état.”

“Yes, it does.”

Halliburton looked thoughtful. “Then Cory’s plan isn’t as wild as I thought.”

“Which is?”

“Breaking in here tonight. With our help.”

“I’m afraid, Ed, that none of us can be very much help. There’s a company of highly trained troops surrounding this complex, and their command has been assumed by Brigadier General Evans.”

“Who’s probably a member of the Committee,” Liz Crescatt added.

“I think we can safely assume that,” Crescatt said.

“But they let me in.”

“See what happens when you try to get out.”

“They can’t do this, sir!” Halliburton’s indignation was so vivid that Crescatt laughed.

“I am afraid they can and will.”

“They can’t control the whole army. You are the Commander-in-Chief.”

“They need only to control that small part of the army here at Camp David. And the only part of that they need to control is one junior general sitting over at Birch Cottage. I suppose Williams told you, we suspect they’re only a thousand strong. Our difficulty is that they are very powerful men in their communities and the federal government. In addition, we don’t know who they are, which makes everyone suspect.”

Halliburton sheepishly took a bulky envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to the President. “Williams asked me to give you this. We all stayed up transcribing it from a cassette. It’s a copy of the list he obtained from General Rainman.”

Crescatt eagerly grabbed the envelope and hastily tore it open. He ran his finger down the long list of names. He stopped halfway down the first page and nodded his head. “Here’s an interesting one. Brigadier Winiman Evans, Fort Meyers, Virginia.” He looked over the rim of his glasses. “That’s the one commanding this camp.” He continued scanning the list.

Crescatt slipped the list into his pocket. “It would seem,” he continued, “that the only members of the Committee presently here at Camp David are Smythe and General Evans.”

“Then we can get the soldiers to help,” Liz said.

The President shook his head. “Smythe has already warned me of that. It seems that General Evans has seen fit to take the same precautions that General Haig took during Nixon’s last days in office. The chain of command has been circumvented. The officers here at Camp David and at the Pentagon have been given word that no one can take a command from me; that I am, shall we say, ‘out of it.’ No one commands the soldiers here at the camp except Evans.”

“What about the Secret Service?” Halliburton asked.

“One of the stewards told me about that,” Liz said. “General Evans called the agents together for a security meeting. When they were all inside one of the cottages he had soldiers surround and disarm them. They’ve been taken to a barracks at the far end of the complex and placed under guard. It doesn’t sound very legal, if you ask me.”

“None of this is legal.” Crescatt began to pace the room. “It’s my own vulnerability that bothers me. I don’t mean my personal safety; I’m worried sick about Liz. It’s the vulnerability of the office—also, the ease with which they are doing this.”

“They can’t declare a well man sick,” Halliburton said, and then stopped abruptly as a thought possessed him. “Unless they use hallucinogens.”

“They will, and with statements from their own doctors, along with the proper press releases, they can succeed. Al Smythe has been orchestrating things for me for years. I know the job he will do; it will be letter-perfect and absolutely believable. You are witnessing the overthrow of your government, and no one will know.”

Edward Halliburton looked ashen. “It would seem, sir, that we should do what Cory Williams suggests. He made me memorize a rather complicated timetable.”

The plane engine droned a monotonous low whine. Cory sat in the front of the four-seater. Ginny sat behind the pilot and pressed the revolver against the pilot’s neck.

Cory glanced at his watch. “In exactly two minutes, I want a course change toward the Cacotin Mountains.”

“Hey, man! That’s restricted area. Camp David is over that way. We could get shot down.”

Ginny pressed the barrel of the gun deeper into the flesh of the pilot’s neck. “The man wants to go to the mountains.”

The plane made a sweeping turn toward Cory’s directed heading. “You guys are nuts,” the pilot muttered.

Cory began checking his gear. He had bought black high-laced boots and a 30.06 hunting rifle from a Maryland sporting-goods shop. Ginny had dyed a pair of coveralls black, and his head was covered with a dark knitted cap pulled low over the back of his neck. He checked the trim on the grease gun and flashlight strapped to his side. He would cradle the hunting rifle in his arms and hope that the jolt of the chute’s opening wouldn’t jar it from his grasp.

On his back was a large black parachute he had pried from the cabinets of the parachute club. He had a small reserve chute hooked to the front of his harness. He checked the load in the weapons and began to rub lampblack on his face and hands.

“You look like a character out of some war movie,” Ginny said from the rear seat. He sensed the anxiety in her voice.

“What’s the time?”

“Five of.”

“We’re on schedule.” Cory looked out the window. It was a moonless night with low scudding clouds at twelve hundred feet. He would jump at two thousand in the hope that cloud covering would obscure most of his jump. It would be a free fall, a kind he had never made before. He would attempt to open the main chute at six hundred feet. He sat back in the seat, as far as his cumbersome gear would allow.

“Three of,” Ginny said.

Cory turned to the pilot. “When my companion tells you, I want the engine cut.”

“We’re over the mountains.”

“They’re little mountains.”

“Oh, Christ,” the pilot said in a resigned voice.

“Time,” Ginny said.

“Cut the engine,” Cory commanded.

The pilot flipped a switch, and the engine drone stopped. He feathered the whirring blade until only their forward momentum kept it slowly turning. There was silence in the small craft.

Cory snapped open the side door and shifted his weight.

“Five seconds, Cory.” Ginny’s voice cracked as she began to count backward. “Five … four …”

Cory slipped his legs out the door and grasped both edges of the frame.

“Three … Two … Goodbye, dar—”

He jerked his body forward and left the plane in a sitting position with his boots clamped tightly together.

He began to fall. He fought the rising panic that a parachute jump always produced in him and counted aloud.

Colonel Edward Halliburton left the President’s cabin. Two guards at the front door stiffened to attention as he walked outside. He nodded in their direction and turned down a walkway toward his own quarters.

An eighty-second Airborne master sergeant appeared out of the shadows directly to his front. The sergeant snapped a salute.

“Begging the colonel’s pardon. May I ask where you are going?”

“I am going to my quarters to change clothes, Sergeant. Do you mind?” He deliberately kept a biting tone in his voice.

“You’re in Dogwood, sir?”

“That is correct. Now, get the hell out of my way.” He brushed past the noncom and strode briskly down the walk. He wondered what misinformation General Evans had given the troopers concerning this increased security.

The interior walks of Camp David were gently curving pavements around the cluster of cabins and service buildings. They were lit by low street lamps that were replicas of Victorian gas lamps. The cabins were large one- or two-bedroom suites, and the guests were either provided with room service or ate at Laurel, where they were served by Navy stewards. Under Eisenhower the camp had been rustic. The Nixon administration had refurbished it so that, while exteriors were rustic in appearance, inside they were furnished luxuriously.

As he passed Laurel, Halliburton noticed that the stewards were preparing sandwiches and coffee for the changing shift of trooper guards.

That would be his next step as soon as he changed from mufti.

Liz Crescatt wriggled into the short shorts. They barely buttoned at the waist, and she had to hold her breath, flip the button, and slowly exhale.

It would be disaster to sit down in the pants, as she was afraid she might split the rear seam. She did a half turn in front of a full-length mirror.

My God, she thought. It looked like she had been sewn into the things. They were positively pornographic. She took off her bra and searched through a drawer for a tight T-shirt. She fully intended to jiggle.

She carefully slipped half a dozen marijuana joints into an empty cigarette package. Dr. Halliburton had assured her that the vendor he contacted in Washington Square told him they were pure Colombian Gold. She sniffed one and doubted that assessment, only hoping that they weren’t a complete ripoff.

She glanced at the small clock on the dresser it was almost time to go.

President Orville Crescatt stood in the center of the floor watching the phone on the desk with one glance and the clock over the mantel with the next. When the time arrived, he walked briskly to the phone and flipped it from its cradle.

“Yes, sir,” was the immediate reply from the camp’s switchboard operator. The usual efficient Elfie from the White House staff, had been replaced by a trooper corporal.

“Get me Mr. Smythe and General Evans I want to see them both immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” the soldier barely had time to reply as Crescatt slammed down the phone.

He walked to the sofa in front of the fireplace and slightly shifted it. Furniture position during a confrontation was important. Every nuance of the coming meeting was important, and this was going to be the most important meeting of his life.

He finished turning furniture and sat down in an easy chair to wait.

Colonel Edward Halliburton put on dress pinks. He did something he rarely did—attached his ribbons. He squared the garrison cap on his head, checked the crease of his pants and the fall of his coat in the mirror, and picked a piece of lint from his lapel.

He was ordinarily a casual soldier, more inclined to gray flannel trousers and a blazer, but tonight he would need every possible advantage. The double eagles on his shoulders and the eight rows of ribbons might just be the edge that would serve him well. He dropped a vial of clear powder into his right pants pocket and left the suite.

Halliburton walked to Laurel House, where the soldiers’ mess had been established. A young corporal looked up from a sandwich when he entered the building, and yelled a loud “Atten-hut!”

The dozen or so troopers lounging over coffee and sandwiches sprang to their feet.

“At ease,” Halliburton said as he strode through the room toward the kitchen area. The men went back to their coversations and food.

A senior mess steward came over to him. “Can I get you something, Colonel?”

“I’m running a spot health inspection, Warren,” he said, reading the steward’s name tag. “I can find my way about. Carry on.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dr. Halliburton made a thorough kitchen inspection. He looked into grease traps, inspected the cleanliness of unused pans, and ran his finger along high ledges for dust. He paid minute attention to the large coffee urn in the serving area.

He lifted the lid of the urn and appeared to be peering inside while he surreptitiously poured the vial of white powder into the coffee.

He left Laurel with a curt nod to the senior steward and a crisp, “Very good.”

His next stop would be the generator building, fifty yards back in the woods.

At prep school, Liz Crescatt had once roomed with a girl who was said to have laid the complete Phillips Exeter Academy Lacrosse team. She had once asked her roommate how many boys she had gone to bed with, and was nonplussed at the inexactitude of the answer, “Oh, somewhere between eighty and a hundred.”

As she strolled past Laurel, she tried to remember how her roommate walked and talked. As she consciously thought about it, her hips took on a pronounced seductive sway.

Cory Williams’s instructions were explicit. A hundred yards from the President’s cottage was a gun emplacement with a fifty-caliber machine gun and searchlight. The light was powered by an auxiliary generator at the rear of the emplacement. It had to be neutralized.

Liz knew the soldiers had been watching her for the last ten yards of her walk. “Hi.”

They smiled at her lasciviously.

“Hi,” a PFC of her own age finally replied.

“Want to share a joint?”

“Jesus, Miss Crescatt, they’d shoot us for that.”

She sat on an ammunition box and hoped her pants wouldn’t split while she lit up. She took a deep breath of smoke and held it in her lungs for a count of six before slowly exhaling. She leaned over to the private first class, with the joint in her hand. She let her left breast rub against his arm. “Come on. Scared?”

President Orville Crescatt dominated the room. General Evans, in stiffly starched combat fatigues and with a holster clipped to his pistol belt, sat ramrod stiff on the edge of his chair. Al Smythe, the ever-present cigarette dangling from his lips, slouched across the room.

“General Evans, I demand that you arrest Mr. Smythe.”

“I can’t do that, sir.”

“That is a direct order.”

The general looked uncomfortable but didn’t answer.

“Drop it, Orville,” Smythe said softly.

“I am your Commander-in-Chief, Evans. You can be broken. You can be cashiered from the service.”

“Don’t forget to tear off his epaulets, Orville.”

“That man is a traitor, General,” Crescatt said, ignoring Smythe.

“I take my orders from Mr. Symthe, Mr. President. Tomorrow I will take orders from the new President.”

“All right, Al,” Crescatt said as he turned his attention to his aide. “How are you going to handle it?”

“You are resigning tomorrow.”

“Do you plan to kill me?”

“Sometime during the day you will experience what is euphemistically known as a psychotic episode, caused by stress from the recent attempts on your life. Halliburton will be relieved of his medical duties for incompetence.”

“As I expected. I assume you will administer hallucinogens?”

Smythe shrugged and lit another cigarette. “I leave the exact details to men of expertise in that sort of thing. It will be necessary to hospitalize you and impanel a group of doctors to rule on your mental health. When you speak of such things as this meeting, they will term it paranoia. The Vice-President will assume your duties.”

“We’ve known each other for a long time, Al. If it weren’t for your help I wouldn’t have this job in the first place. Why are you doing this?”

“Why didn’t you appoint me to a cabinet post?”

Crescatt looked astonished. “I wanted you in the White House. I needed your day-to-day political comments and advice, not to have you running some huge bureaucracy.”

“I could have done both. Other men have. That isn’t the real reason you didn’t appoint me.”

“We were a team. You tend to be ruthless and need my tempering.”

“Why don’t you use the word you’ve used to others about me—Machiavellian.”

“You said it, Al.”

“No, Mr. President.” He used the title sarcastically. “You used me. And then, when you designed this dangerous “Crusade” of yours, you were really over the political fence.”

“I knew it wouldn’t be politically expedient. My plan is meant to transcend expediency and reach the world.”

“And to take the party down to ruin in next November’s election.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Certain people weren’t willing to take the risk.”

“And now you will control the presidency when the Vice-President takes office.”

“Absolutely and completely. He will do as he is told.”

Crescatt looked back at General Evans. “And you, General?”

“It’s for the good of the country.”

“God, how much abuse has been committed in the name of patriotism,” Orville Crescatt said.

The main parachute opened and jerked Cory upward like a marionette.

The sporting parachute had a different configuration from a military chute, and he found it far easier to control. A tug of the shroud lines could control his descent in either direction.

Below and to the right he could see the walkways, lights, and gatehouse of Camp David. He estimated that he was five hundred yards to the south. He pulled on the shrouds and felt his body sway as air spilled from the edge of his chute and his direction changed.

He had nearly lost the hunting rifle when his body had been snapped up on the chute’s impact. He grasped it firmly. He might have to use it immediately upon landing.

He knew from his army experience that his most vulnerable time would be the instant of touchdown. The chute might fill with air and drag him in a prone position. He might make a tree landing and dangle helplessly until plucked like ripe fruit. Or he might have the bad luck to land within yards of armed men.

It was a chance that had to be taken.

He was directly over the main walkways of the camp when the lights blinked out.

The question of his survival would be determined in the next thirty seconds.

CHAPTER 27

Cory sideslipped the parachute until it hovered directly over the center maze of walkways at Camp David. He was only yards from touchdown. His visual accommodation now allowed him to make out dim shapes on the ground below.

He was going to land a few feet in front of a machine gun emplacement. Not only was he going to land near the emplacement, but he would be directly in front of the long fifty-caliber barrel, and for precious seconds he would be helpless in the chute.

It was over. He had failed.

He clamped his feet together and braced himself for a textbook “parachute landing fall.” Cory hit the ground and immediately rocked his body sideways to absorb the landing shock with the full side of his torso. It was a good landing, and in the breezeless night the black parachute collapsed over him like a shroud. He hit the quick-release clamp and shrugged out of the harness.

He slowly turned to face the long barrel of the heavy machine gun. He knew what he looked like—a man dressed in black, holding a hunting rifle in his arms with another weapon draped along his side. He had parachuted into a restricted area—he was a dead man.

He stood before the machine gun, waiting for the audible click of the bolt as the first bullet of the belt was pumped into the weapon’s chamber.

Only crickets protested the night’s intrusion.

Cory walked slowly toward the sandbagged enclosure. There were three men in the nest; one was bent over the firing mechanism, while two others were sprawled nearby.

He stepped over the embankment and placed his fingers along the carotid artery of the soldier nearest the weapon. The man was alive, the strong pulse attested to that; he was sound asleep, as were the two others.

A thermos jug tilted on its side contained the last remnants of spilled coffee. Canteen mugs lay next to each of the unconscious soldiers.

Halliburton had performed well.

Cory quickly retrieved the parachute and weighted it down at the bottom of the foxhole. Shading his flashlight with his hand, he briefly flicked it on. A pair of infrared binoculars was perched on the edge of the emplacement, near the sleeping gunnery sergeant. He raised the glasses to his eyes and activated the mechanism.

The infrared light turned the whole area into a visible shadow etched in white. He swept the glasses around the perimeter of the position.

The machine gun’s mate was three hundred meters away, at a slight angle to his present position. The three gunners were obviously noncoffee drinkers. They were wide awake and struggling with an amorous Liz Crescatt. She had her arms draped over one soldier’s neck as he struggled toward the searchlight generator. She kissed the trooper and pressed her body against his.

Cory swept the glasses toward the President’s cottage. It was a few hundred yards from his position. Two sentries stationed by the front door had dropped to the ground and were now faced in opposite directions. Their weapons were extended and they were propped on elbows. They were in full combat position. Other awake soldiers in the complex would also be on full alert due to the electrical failure.

A helicopter stood at the rear of the presidential cottage. Its rotor blades slowly turned in preparation for instant take-off.

Cory took the infrared binoculars with him as he vaulted from the emplacement and began to run toward the presidential cottage. The darkness and his possession of the infrared device were the edge he needed to overcome the two cottage guards.

He made a wide circle in the dark in order to come around the far corner of the cottage. Occasionally, he would stop and take a bearing with the binoculars.

He stopped by the edge of the cottage and took one last look at the prone soldier a few yards away.

“See anything?” one of the guards in front of the house asked.

“Naw. What happened to the goddamn lights?”

“Who the hell knows?”

The troopers were only wearing helmet liners, and Cory brought the butt of the hunting rifle down in a swinging blow that caught the first soldier along the side of the head. He toppled over on his side.

“What the fuck—” The other guard scrambled to his feet and swung his weapon in an arc toward Cory.

Cory instantly reversed the weapon and smashed the butt into the soldier’s solar plexus. As the paratrooper collapsed, he caught him a second time across the side of the head.

He was bathed in light from a powerful searchlight.

The gunner with Liz Crescatt had untwined himself from her arms and switched on the generator and light. It had been pointed directly at the entrance to the presidential cottage and now outlined Cory in its beam.

The gunner reacted with the reflexes of a well-trained professional soldier. The heavy machine gun, operating on single fire, began to spit as its barrel swung toward Cory.

Cory dropped to one knee and snapped off a shot which shattered the searchlight and plunged the area into darkness.

“Sergeant of the guard, post number three!”

There were other yells from the surrounding area.

Walkway and interior lights switched on. Whatever sabotage Dr. Halliburton had performed was either repaired or a backup system had been brought into use. Cory threw his shoulder against the cottage door and stumbled into the hallway as the door splintered before the force of his blow.

General Evans was crouched at the end of the hall with a .45 in his hand.

The grease gun had slipped from Cory’s shoulder and lay across his chest. He reached for the trigger and turned. The weapon’s natural momentum walked the barrel upward as it rattled in his hand.

Half a dozen bullets sketched a bloody pattern across Evans’s front and knocked him backwards into the living room.

Cory rushed forward into the living room, where Orville Crescatt clutched at his arm.

“Smythe! You’ve got to get him. He went out the back to the helicopter. For God’s sake, Cory. Get Smythe!”

Beyond the living room was a serving pantry with a rear entrance that exited out onto a patio near a swimming pool. Beyond the pool, squatting on its concrete pad, the helicopter prepared for take off. Al Smythe climbed into the machine and gave rapid orders to the pilot.

The helicopter slowly rose into the sky.

Cory snapped the 30.06 to his shoulder and pulled the trigger. It was jammed. He fumbled with the bolt and fought with his fingers to seat the cartridge properly in the chamber.

Another searchlight flipped on as its beam followed the rise of the helicopter.

Half a dozen eighty-second Airborne troopers exited from the tree line beyond the helicopter pad. A noncom shouted commands, and automatic weapons snapped to shoulders.

The helicopter, a hundred feet in the air, began a sweep to the north as it struggled to gain altitude.

Cory would have one shot.

Norm Lewis spoke to him from a time a thousand years ago, during a rainy afternoon at the Hunt Club. “For Christ’s sake, Cory, that’s a bunch of crap! There are a dozen factors involved in a shot: weather, type of ammo, motion of the target …”

Ed Robinson had joined in. “You guys can talk about targets, scopes, and windage from now until the eagle screams. It doesn’t mean bat shit. It’s a different ballgame when you face other men with loaded weapons.”

A time so long ago, when he had boasted of his marksmanship and ability to hit any target.

The helicopter was at two hundred feet and moving at an angle away from his position.

There were low crumps from the squad of troopers beyond the pad as they fired at him.

He held the rifle at a forty-five-degree angle. It was difficult to get a decent sight picture. No time for windage adjustments. It would be a dead-reckoning shot at the white face of the presidential aide who stared down at him through the helicopter port.

Cory fired.

The face in the helicopter window snapped back as the bullet pierced the plexiglass and entered Al Smythe’s forehead.

Another weapon fired and blackness overcame Cory.

“Pull!”

The clay pigeon spun into the air and disintegrated in the shotgun blast.

“Christ, Mr. Johnson. You’re one hell of a shot.”

The man with the shotgun looked at the young man and smiled. “You’ve got a pretty good eye yourself, Billy. A little more time, and you’ll get there.”

Billy shook his head. “I’ll never be as good as you, Mr. Johnson.”

The man with the shotgun called out. “Wrap it up for the day, Stacy. We’re going in.”

Cory and Billy broke open their shotguns and let them dangle over their forearms as they walked slowly toward the long rustic building that overlooked the lake. They paused where the path topped a ridge, and turned to look at the sun setting over Hiawassee Lake.

Two outboards, fishing lines trailing as they trolled back toward the boat dock, slowly approached. “If they’re still trolling when they come in, there’s no fresh bass tonight.”

He took Billy’s gun with his own and placed them in the gun rack in the lodge dining room. He made a mental note to clean them after dinner. He poked his head through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

She stood by the stove with both hands clamped firmly across her protruding belly.

“Anything wrong?” he asked.

“It’s kicking like hell. I think I can feel a foot.”

He crossed to her and kissed the nape of her neck and then placed a hand on her stomach. “It’s an elbow.”

“Whatever.”

He gasped and put both hands against his temples. “Jesus!”

“It still hurts,” she said as a statement of fact.

“Not as much as last month and less than the month before.” The sharp stabbing pain subsided, and he lowered his hands. “Twelve covers for tonight’s dinner—assuming no one gets lost out on the lake. Come out on the veranda, and we’ll have a drink before they come in.”

She shook her head. “I’ll come out, but no booze. Bad for the baby.”

“It’ll quiet him or her down. One won’t hurt.” He took her hand and led her out to the long porch that ran the length of the building.

They sat with cool drinks, on wide wicker chairs. The Rod and Gun Club was built on a TVA lake and nestled near a large national forest near the center of the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was a secluded and quiet spot financed for Cory by the Department of Justice, just as their new names, driver’s licenses, birth certificates, and Social Security numbers in the name of Johnson had been provided by the government.

“There was an article in the paper today about General Rainman,” she said.

“That bastard. What’s he up to?”

“He shot himself at the Wiltshire Club.”

Cory nodded without feeling. Rainman wasn’t the first, nor would he be the last, of the members of the Committee who had killed themselves. President Crescatt had moved with alacrity. The deputy director of the FBI had been removed from office by forced resignation on the day following the shooting at Camp David. Ten high-ranking army officers had suddenly found themselves on the retirement list. In the following week a hundred other bureaucrats had been transferred to far-flung posts.

It had become quickly obvious to all members of the Committee that their names and locations were known. Many had opted to leave the country and permanently exile themselves.

The remaining members had been isolated and rendered harmless. Subtle and not-so-subtle pressure over the ensuing months had removed nearly all of them from places of power.

The Committee’s effectiveness had been negated. President Orville Crescatt continued his Crusade for a new world, while Liz Crescatt married Dr. Halliburton and played a great deal of tennis.

Cory had been unconscious ten days, from the head wound. His survival was termed miraculous.

Fishermen were trudging up toward the lodge from the boat dock. Ginny slowly rose from the wicker chair. “Here they come. You better mix drinks for the paying guests. I feel like a cow.”

He kissed her. “A beautiful cow.”

“Thanks a million.”

They walked into the house. She went back into the kitchen, while Cory stepped behind the bar at the far end of the dining room. He set a cocktail shaker on the dark-stained wood and began to mix manhattans.

Only occasionally did he glance toward the wall phone with the very private number.

He wondered, wistfully, if it would ever ring.

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 © 1981 by Stockton Woods

Cover design by Andy Ross

ISBN: 978-1-5040-3797-6

This 2016 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

About the Author

Copyright Page