Blindsided (3 page)

Charles didn't know how long he sat there on the bench. Long enough that the wind sent the leaves on the pond somewhere else as the moon inched its way across the sky. His body was telling him it was way past his bedtime. Not that he had a real bedtime; he didn't. He slept when his body told him to sleep. An hour here, two hours there. Rarely, if ever, did he sleep a full night in his bed. A doctor had once told him his brain wasn't programmed to sleep the way other people slept. He'd accepted it because he couldn't come up with a better answer. Now, however, his body was telling him it was time to head into the house and prepare for some rest.

Charles grunted when he got up, his knees and joints creaking. Even the dogs heard the bone-cracking noises. They were on their feet instantly, racing to the kitchen door. He was stunned to see Myra sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of tea, the tea bag hanging over the side of the cup. He winced at the sight.

“Did you have a nice walk in the garden, dear?”

“I did. Would you like me to make you some
real
tea?”

“No. This is fine. I gave your Crock-Pot to Ted this afternoon.”

“I see” was all Charles could think of to say.

“I hated it, Charles. I'd rather eat a baloney sandwich than that stuff you threw in the pot. I didn't even know we owned a Crock-Pot.”

“I ordered it online. Truth be told, I didn't much care for it myself, but it was convenient. Would you like to talk about it, Myra?”

Myra knew he wasn't referring to the Crock-Pot. “Yes, and no. Annie's back, as you can see. She came over to take me to lunch because she'd won seventy-three dollars on her way out of the casino. If lunch was over seventy-three dollars, I had to make up the difference. Just as we were leaving to go, Maggie showed up. Her husband, Gus Sullivan, was killed in Afghanistan by a roadside bomb. Ten months ago! She didn't tell anyone but Ted. Gus went back as some kind of security consultant, against Maggie's wishes. She said their marriage was over even before he left, and she has been carrying around a ton of guilt on her shoulders. Ted helped her through the worst of it. Anyway, she's back to stay and will be working at the
Post.

“In addition to that, Annie told me Fergus left to return to his family in Scotland. It seems he won the Irish Sweepstakes and didn't tell anyone but Annie. Somehow, the family he was estranged from found out about his winnings and welcomed him back. Annie says she isn't devastated, but she is. That's why we went to the bistro and drank more than was good for us. I swear I will never do that again. Ted and Joseph brought us home. I guess you could technically say they put us to bed in the family room. That's the end of my story. I'm
not
sorry about the Crock-Pot, Charles. You need to know that.”

Charles nodded. “Will Maggie be all right?”

“I think so. She might have a few things she has to work through, but she's back with all of us now. One step, one day at a time. Maggie's tough. What she didn't realize was that she is also vulnerable, like the rest of us. She knows that now. Oh, she did say something else when we got back. She said she wants to talk to us in the morning about a possible mission for the Vigilantes.”

Charles felt his heart skip a beat. “Really?”

“That's pretty much what I said, too. ‘Really?' Oh, Charles, I hope it's something we can sink our teeth into. We have been so inactive, and I can't bear those gold shields getting tarnished and going to waste. We need to
use
them. You know what, darling? I will take some of that real tea now. And maybe something nourishing. Like food. I'll settle for peanut butter and jelly if you make it.”

“Consider it done, my dear. Would you like some marshmallow fluff on top of the jelly?”

Myra giggled. “Of course, dear. Sweets to the sweet. Oh, I can't wait for Maggie to wake up to tell us what's on her mind. Have you seen anything on the news lately that would . . . fit into our lifestyle these days, Charles?”

Busy at the counter, Charles stopped to think, then shook his head. “Not that I recall. Everything is political nowadays, or the news is about some movie star's doing something he or she shouldn't be doing. I have no clue.”

Myra nibbled on her thumbnail, her gaze on a hanging plant in the window, her thoughts taking her back in time to other missions with the girls. She could feel her heart rate accelerate as she contemplated getting back into action with her peers.

Charles set Myra's plate in front of her, then one for himself. He poured fresh
real
tea and sat down across from his wife. “I have to admit, I'm looking forward to hearing what Maggie has to say.” He bit into his sandwich, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

“I knew it! You are just as anxious as Annie and I to get back to work. I swear, Charles, I was beginning to think we were starting to atrophy, and that Crock-Pot just confirmed it. Aren't you glad we're starting with a clean slate now?”

“My dear, you have no idea!”

“Oh, yes, my darling, I do. And so does Annie. And I truly believe Maggie will be up for whatever comes our way. As soon as I finish this lovely sandwich and drink this delicious tea, I am going to text Nellie, Martine, and Pearl to put them on alert. I know they're chomping at the bit just the way Annie and I have been. Unless . . .” Myra let her eyes do the talking. Charles laughed.

“Just so you know, Charles, today at the bistro I was not only drinking, I was listening, and you would be surprised at what I learned. I'm willing to share if you think you can beat me to the second floor.”

Before Charles could react, Myra was up and sprinting up the back staircase to the second floor, with Charles hot on her heels.

“Oh, dear, you caught me,” Myra said, gasping for breath.

“That I did, old girl, that I did, and I am never going to let you go.”

R
etired federal judge Cornelia Easter, Nellie to those near and dear, shivered in her easy recliner when a strong gust of wind whipped against the casement windows. The noise was so loud, the cats cuddling on her lap hissed and raced off to more quiet surroundings. She looked over at her husband, retired FBI Director Elias Cummings, and smiled. She wasn't sure if a magnitude seven earthquake could wake Elias when he dozed off after a more-than-satisfying dinner.

The lone cat nestled on her shoulder only stirred when he alerted Nellie that she had an incoming text message. She hated text messages that required a response because the keys were too little, and her gnarled fingers had trouble hitting the right keys. As she read the message, she risked a glance at her husband—still sound asleep. She sucked in her breath, trying to decide if she was excited at what she was reading or dreading the outcome. She did, however, like the part that Maggie was back in town. She fumbled in the pocket of the recliner for a pen and managed to tap off a response that was short and to the point: I will be there. “There” being Myra's for dinner the following day, followed by a meeting in the catacombs for a possible mission. She stared off into space, finally focusing on the fire burning in the fireplace, and came to the conclusion that she was excited at the message she'd received.

She'd been bored for weeks now—maybe it was months, she'd simply lost track of time—ever since the painters had arrived. Either they were exceptionally slow, or she had no patience for perfection, which the painters said was needed when painting such a lovely old historical farmhouse. She couldn't help but wonder how excited her husband would be when she woke him up to go to bed, which was laughable in itself.

She really should get up and put some more logs on the fire. She loved the warmth from the fire. Another sign of old age, along with her arthritis, she thought sourly. The need to feel warm all the time was right up there with wearing three-quarter sleeves even in the high heat of summer, so the ugly brown spots that could no longer pass as freckles couldn't be seen. Old age sucked, as Annie pointed out on a daily basis.

Nellie frowned. Was she losing her mind? Didn't Annie just leave for Vegas a few days ago? She was sure of it. But she was suddenly back home, along with Maggie Spitzer. Aha! For sure, something was in the wind. Her frown deepened. Unless . . . Annie got kicked out of Vegas. Again. More than likely that's what had happened, knowing Annie's track record. Still, the fact that Annie was back so quickly meant something serious was going on. Doubly so since Maggie had also returned.

Nellie struggled to get her new hips, which weren't so new anymore, to work as she got out of her chair to throw more logs on the fire. She watched as the sparks shot up the chimney like a Fourth of July fireworks display.

Outside, the wind continued to whistle and shriek like loons on a lake. She paid it no mind as she tried to imagine what would go down tomorrow at Pinewood after dinner. The frown was knitting its way over her brow again when her thoughts took her to Pearl Barnes, who was suffering through a painful bout of gout. Would Pearl make it to Pinewood? Knowing Pearl, she'd be there if she had to crawl. That left the ex-president, who was in Bahrain or some damn place like that, giving a speech for half a million dollars. How in the world would she get back home in time for a meeting at Pinewood? It would take her days just to figure out a way to shake her Secret Service protection.

Nellie looked over at Elias, who was snoring loudly, another reason the cats had run for cover. She let her hand dip down into the pocket of her lounger and withdrew the soft velvet pouch she always kept near. She withdrew the shiny gold shield. A delicious wave of something she couldn't define raced through her body, then the word
danger
flooded her whole being. Holding the flawless chunk of gold in the palm of her hand had to be the ultimate adrenaline rush. She savored the moment before slipping the shield back into the velvet pouch.

A log dropped with a loud cracking sound. Elias stirred but didn't wake. Nellie closed her eyes and let her memories take her where they wanted to go.

 

 

Less than forty miles away, in Alphabet City, the retired justice of the Supreme Court, Pearl Barnes, hobbled around her kitchen in search of food that wouldn't aggravate her condition. She was cranky to be sure because she absolutely refused to take medicine for her condition. She hated pills of all kinds, and it had been over fifty years since she'd even popped an aspirin. She'd researched her condition years ago and knew what she had to do each time a bout flared up. If her calculations were right, she'd be almost as good as new if she could make it through the next day and a half. She'd cut down on her healing time during her last three flare-ups thanks to a bean-and-legume diet, along with gallons of water. In her research and chats online and blogs and tweets and everything in between, there had been one woman much her own age who swore by the bean, legume, and water diet for gout by saying she was good to go in three days after a flare-up. And don't worry, the postscript read, if you have gas for a few days. It's all about ridding yourself of the toxins.

Pearl Barnes hated doctors. Until she needed one. She also hated lawyers even though she was one herself. Until she needed one. The truth was there was nothing much in life that Pearl actually liked other than her part in operating an underground railroad for abused women. She'd more or less retired from that venture when, thanks to ample warning, she got the hell out of Dodge in the nick of time. If she had a love of any kind, seeing the women off to safety was it. She still gave her input, but she was smart enough to know she was under surveillance, so she was extracareful not to do anything that would jeopardize the other faithful volunteers. She missed it, missed the urgency, the danger, the smiles of the grateful women and kids she put her life on the line to help.

Pearl was in the right frame of mind when the text came through from Myra. She responded immediately, saying she would be there with a bell around her neck. And she would be there. When she gave her word on something, there was nothing in the world that could make her go back on a promise. Now for sure she had something to look forward to. And if her calculations were spot on, she might be able to enjoy the gourmet dinner she was sure Charles would be whipping up.

Pearl read the short text again. Annie had just gone to Vegas, and yet she was back. Obviously, she'd been kicked out of her own casino. Again. And Maggie Spitzer was back in town. For sure, that had to mean something. Being as astute as she was, Pearl immediately decided that Maggie's marriage had gone south. A
twofer
. Two words came to Pearl's agile mind.
Danger
and
action
. There were no words in her vocabulary to describe how much she loved both danger and action. She dived into her plate of beans and legumes and ate with a vengeance. She swigged down almost a liter of water and swore to herself that she immediately felt better. Yessiree, by tomorrow she'd be full of piss and vinegar. She would spend the rest of the evening trying to figure out how to shake the man who was constantly tailing her. As she hobbled about the kitchen, her thoughts traveled to Martine Connor as she wondered if she'd be a no-show for tomorrow's meeting. Myra had told her a few days ago that Martine was in the Far East or some damn place surrounded by sand doing God only knew what. Giving speeches for money just to have something to do because she swore on the Bible that she was not going to be one of those presidents who wrote their memoirs and had a library named after them so they could display her book. She liked Marti Connor. Really liked her. The translation of the word
like
meant the ex-prez was her kind of woman. Didn't she get them those fancy gold shields? Now, that took guts, but she'd gone up against the good ol' boys and gotten it done. And it was irreversible.

As Pearl settled herself for the evening in her family room, she admitted she could hardly wait for the hours to pass so she could drive out to Pinewood.

Words to live by as far as she was concerned.

 

 

Martine Connor, Marti to friends, looked across at her Secret Service agent and winced. She liked Jessie Palmer, she really did, but she'd had enough of her. This trip to the Far East was it, as far as she was concerned. When she got back to the States next week, she was going to act on her less-than-lame plan to discontinue the service, to which she was entitled for the rest of her life. The bottom line was that Jessie Palmer was cramping her style, and she'd had enough. Enough!

What the hell was she doing in this godforsaken country anyway? In thirty-six hours, she'd given six speeches, eaten shitty food, and pocketed a boatload of cash she neither wanted nor needed. How she had allowed herself to be persuaded to come here was something she still hadn't figured out. But here she was on her way to some putrid luncheon where she would pretend to eat, after which she would give an hour-long speech on a subject she pretended to care about, and which had to be translated for the people who were pretending to listen.

An incoming text made Marti sit upright in the back of the limousine she was riding in. Jessie Palmer looked over at the ex-president of the United States and frowned. She needed to know what the text said, but she knew if she asked, her charge would blow up at her. Blowing up was happening a lot these past few months, and she knew in her gut she was on a short leash. “Good news?” she asked lightly.

Marti burst out laughing as she deleted the message. “You have no idea how good it is. Okay, Jessie, here's the plan. After this speech today, rev up the engines, I'm going home. Cancel everything else. Tell them I have a bellyache, a fungus, a bug—I don't care, but I want wheels up the minute I'm out of that palace. Do not argue, do not ask questions. If you can't do that, I can fly home commercial. Do it! Now, Jessie!”

“But . . . but . . .”

“There are no buts. Just do it.”

Jessie wasn't about to give up. “Diplomatic relations . . .”

“Okay, then I'll do it myself and probably not as diplomatically as you can do it. What's it going to be? You know I never mince words.”

Jessie Palmer cringed when she thought about Martine Connor's vocabulary when no one was around, and even sometimes when people
were
around. The lady simply didn't care what she said, when she said it, if she had a point to make she thought no one was getting. With a heavy sigh, she started to tap out text messages. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the wicked gleam in Connor's eyes as she, too, tapped out a message on her BlackBerry.

Marti felt a giggle in her throat that she did her best to squelch. She typed. Am on the way. Do not start without me.

Marti stared out the bulletproof window. Sand. Sand everywhere. She hated sand. She hated the hot, dry air. She hated the car she was sitting in. It smelled even though it was clean. At least it looked clean. She knew she would smell just like the car until she could shower and change her clothes. Since that wasn't going to happen anytime soon, she knew she would smell until she arrived back in the States. Well, she could live with that since she had no other choice.

She was going home. Thank you, God! Back to the land of freedom. Back to breaking the law with her sisters to make sure justice got served. God, just the thought had her tingling all over.

 

 

Charles did his best to hide his grin when Annie sashayed into the kitchen. “You're looking well this morning, Annie. I hope you're up to a good breakfast,” he said, tongue-in-cheek.

“Knock it off, Charles. I know how I look, and yes, I'm up for a good breakfast. What are you serving? By the way, I heard the shower going, so I'm thinking Maggie will be joining us shortly.” She looked over at Myra, who, in Annie's opinion, looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. “How long have you been up, Myra?”

“Actually, Annie, I didn't go to bed. I took a middle-of-the-night walk with Charles, then we sat here drinking tea until the sun came up,” Myra fibbed. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did. I think I dreamed all night about what Maggie is going to tell us when she joins us for breakfast.”

“I have to admit that while I didn't dream, I did discuss the possibilities with Charles,” Myra said as she fingered her pearls.

The swinging door leading into the dining room swung open. Maggie, freshly showered, her corkscrew curls still wet, ran to Charles and hugged him. “Ooooh, this smells so good. I missed your cooking, Charles.” She turned around and announced cheerily, “It's like old times. Well, almost.”

“Maggie, dear, we agreed yesterday that yesterday and the days before yesterday are gone. We're only looking forward from here on in. You didn't change your mind, did you?” Myra said.

“No. Absolutely not. I know better than anyone that you can't go home again. That doesn't mean that going forward won't be better. I believe it will be. The memories will always be there to be looked at when the time is right or needed. I can do it.”

“Of course you can, dear. And you have a great backup system, that will be here for you twenty-four/seven. There are times in all of our lives when we need someone to help us take the next step. I guess that's what I'm trying to say, Maggie,” Myra said gently.

“I know that, Myra. Why do you think this is the first place I ran to?”

Annie clapped her hands. “Okay, enough of that. Tell us what you hinted at yesterday. Myra and I can hardly wait to hear what you have to say.”