The Fury and the Terror (29 page)

This wasn't going well. He had the low suspicion that Eden Waring was playing him tricky somehow. On the other hand there was the blood, proof that she'd been wounded. She had to have burrowed in somewhere attempting to hide. Beneath the deck or house was one possibility. Losing more blood, going into shock.

He looked under the deck. No. So where. Then he saw a sandal beside the path near a corner of the house. Running, headlong. Panic. Wounded. Obvious then where she'd gone. The boathouse.

He went down the slope to the edge of the lake, the dock that enclosed three sides of a metal boathouse painted a faded blue. There was a deck above the boathouse. Voices floated in the calm air from a distant part of the lake. Fishermen. Birds sang cheerily, squirrels played frisky games from tree to tree. He found another lost sandal a few feet from the dock. Padlock on the boathouse door. There was blood on the padlock. Eden couldn't get in. She hadn't been that far ahead of him, so if she'd jumped into the lake there would still be ripples. The water was calm, shading from bottle-glass green to black in the periphery of the boathouse.

Calm. A calm morning.

Nothing showing on the deck above the boathouse but some stacked canvas chairs and a couple of marine storage lockers, one with a coil of bleached rope on the lid. That made it easy. She was in the other locker, trying to make herself small, listening for him. Terrified.

Should have gone into the lake, he thought. More of a chance. But probably she couldn't swim with at least two bullets in her back and shoulder.

He let her hear him coming, but took his time. The dock floated on barrels. The mild slap-slosh of water as the dock dipped slightly from his weight. Up the metal ladder to the deck. It was surfaced with some kind of rubberized nonskid stuff. There was a diving board. Maybe Eden hadn't realized she'd left another bloody handprint scrambling into the vinyl locker. Blood fizzing in the sun. Just fizzing away. If that wasn't the damnedest thing he'd ever—

Grinning, he flipped up the lid using the gunsight on the muzzle of his H and K.

The locker was empty, except for a discarded Mighty Ducks hockey jersey and a pair of running shorts.

His head jerked around in astonishment and annoyance. Toy-size speedboat bounding full-throttle near the far shore. He turned, and looked at the house on the sparsely wooded slope. There was a long slant of morning sun across the front deck. And silence.

He looked again into the nearly empty locker. Reached down with his free hand and lifted out the hockey jersey. Three rather neat holes in the material from the high-velocity slugs, a diagonal going from left to right inches below the collar and shoulder seams. Nailed her, all right. From the placement of the holes he could tell he'd missed the spinal cord, but bones in both shoulders would have been splintered. Leaving her—theoretically helpless to do much with her hands or arms. There were two exit holes in the front of the jersey. One slug had stayed inside Eden.

Then where was all the blood? Should have been more blood.

What little of the girl's blood remained was fading away as he stared at the holes in the woven material.

Something dropped on the deck behind him, making a small thud.

The assassin whipped around ready to fire, adrenaline lighting up the stress center of his brain like an arcade game. The entire boat dock rocked slightly from his momentum.

He saw nothing but mountains and spacious skies. Sun dazzle on the wide lake. He was alone on the deck. No movement except for the .223 caliber slug rolling in a tight semicircle with the motion of the deck a couple of feet from where he stood.

"You can have this back." Eden Waring's voice, the rest of her nowhere to be seen in the electric blue.

A stream of brass issued from the MP5 machine gun as the assassin sowed the air and the deck all around him with lethal lead. He stopped after four seconds, caught his breath. Then he fired a few more rounds into the other marine locker, the one where there had been a coil of rope on the lid.

The implication of the missing rope didn't occur to him until he felt it around his neck, digging in savagely as he was yanked off his feet and dragged backward toward the ladder.

G
eoff was staring into Riley's pain-clouded eyes when they heard the gunfire. "He's killing Eden!" Riley screamed. Then his eyes disappeared into his head as the color of his face faded from red to ghastly gray and he slumped, head down and half off the sofa with the sunflower cushions. Geoff helpless, horrified. Riley was inert. Not so much as a last wrenching breath. Over that fast. Heart.

Geoff's heartbeats were a series of explosions. He squirmed against the hog-tie job, going nowhere. Found himself up against Betts. She was lying on her back. Breathing. One ear was swollen and red and there was a mouse on the cheekbone where Haman had gun-butted her. The rest of her color was not so good. He bumped against Betts frantically, trying to bring her around. Make it to the kitchen on hands and knees if she had to. Bring a knife to cut him free.

Betts opened her eyes partway, blinked, looked at him uncomprehendingly.

"Go away."

Geoff made frantic noises in his throat.

Betts moaned softly, closed her eyes.

"I don't feel good. Numb. Hands are numb."

Voiceless, trying to make her understand.

Betts, love of God he's comin' back for sure. Not much time. Get me loose
.

"I feel sick. My head hurts."

Get up get up get up
.

"Hands numb. Can't feel my hands.
Stop
it."

Talking to her with his eyes. Pleading.

Comin' back. Kill us all. Get up
.

Betts rolled away from him and vomited instead.

The front door was opened.

From where Geoff was lying on the floor he couldn't see the door. Only a swift morning shadow on a paneled wall. Unidentifiable except for the jut of breasts. All he could think of was Haman made up to resemble Rona Harvester. Wearing that ridiculous stuffed bra. Haman was here. Geoff felt crushed, defeated.

One hand free. If he just had one hand—

He saw bare feet coming toward him. Long athletic legs, tanned. Jogging shorts, hockey jersey covering her to her hips. He saw two 'small holes in the jersey at the level of her collarbones. Sunlight was adding flame to her hair this morning. Her eye had turned in, as it was apt to do when Eden was stressed. But it was her right eye.

She glanced at Geoff but went to Betts first, helping her to sit up, cleaned vomit from inside her mouth with a finger so she wouldn't aspirate it. Betts was breathing okay, not laboring, but her eyes were unfocused. The girl put her down again with a pillow beneath her head. Then, on hands and knees, she lifted Riley's head, placed two fingers against the carotid artery in his neck. After a dozen seconds had passed she sighed and moved his body so it was lying face up on the sofa.

Then she came to Geoff, tugged at the tape across his mouth with fingers that reeked of Betts's vomit, and removed his gag. Geoff coughed violently, his own gorge rising. She stepped back out of the way, looking coolly at him.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes. Can't believe. Eden, he shot you.
Saw it
. How bad?"

She shrugged. "It's nothing."

"
Where is he?
"

She turned and walked to the kitchen. With her back to him he counted three more round holes in the Mighty Ducks jersey. Only holes. There was no blood.

"Down at the dock. Tied up. I threw his gun in the lake."

"How did you—? Should have shot him, he's too dangerous!"

"Can't do that. I can't kill a human being."

"He shot
you
."

"I told you, it's no big deal."

She opened drawers in the kitchen, came up with a pair of scissors, and walked back to him.

"What do you mean, 'no big deal'?"

"I'm not hurt. Okay?"

"I'm looking at holes in that shirt.
Bullet holes
."

"You're getting a little shrill. Why don't you just shut up, big guy. Everything's under control. Too bad about Riley, though."

"What is this? What's goin' on?" Geoff looked around, eyes flashing fear. "I'm dreamin' this. He's dead, and you go, 'Too bad about Riley.' What? What? That's not the Eden Waring I know! Eden would be grief-stricken. Loved her daddy. Okay, then this ain't real. You can't be Eden, so, fuck, I don't know. I must be trippin'. How? Haven't had a controlled substance since I was sixteen. Wish I
was
stoned. Otherwise means I lost it. Breakin' point. All I wanted was to be a SEAL but couldn't handle the cold, wet all the time, they didn't let you sleep, I just cracked. Washed out. My old man could've spit on me. I must've washed out ,again when the front door opened. Just wait till he hears the news. Ha ha HAH! Geoff bought the whole fuckin' nut farm this time."

"You're not so bad. Stop breathing that hard, you'll hyperventilate." She knelt beside him and snipped away at the duct tape with the scissors. Geoff sat up rubbing his wrists. He put a finger into one of the holes in the hockey jersey. Firm flesh underneath. No trace of a wound. She didn't flinch, just smiled in a humoring way.

"Satisfied?"

He withdrew his finger. He was trembling, electrified, as if he'd stuck the finger into a light socket.

She slowly raised the jersey, gathering it above her bare breasts. She took a deep breath, expanding her chest until her rosy nipples peaked.

"Any of this look familiar? Ought to."

Geoff got to his feet, staring down at her. He was wobbly. He put a hand against the back of a wicker chair, stumbled into a table, and knocked a lamp to the floor. Made it to the front door and outside.

She had the feeling he might pass out and hurt himself. Probably could have handled this a little better. She sighed again and followed Geoff.

WASHINGTON, D.C./QUANTICO, VA. • MAY 29 • 11:24 A.M. EDT

R
ona Harvester and Pard, the family's Border collie, left the Marine helicopter that had returned her to the White House and were met by Rona's communications director.

"How was the President this morning?" Melissa asked.

"Robust. That's the word I'd like for you to use in all future releases."

"Wonderful. Such good news."

"He's still having a few difficulties with the King's English. But he's dying to come home."

"To the White House?"

"Yes. For a few days. Not too strenuous a schedule. But I want him to be seen in familiar surroundings. The world has been wondering and waiting. Clint's return should be a real tonic for the stock market. I'll talk to Rumsill and Pearce, have them load up on futures for the blind trust."

"Wouldn't that be a violation of—"

Rona scowled. "Melissa, there's a wide gulf between opportunism and fraud."

"I didn't mean—"

"Buy some S and P June calls for your own account. The offshore ac count, of course. Next. Alert Clint's staff, I'll meet with them at two this afternoon. Some strict guidelines must and will be observed. We don't want Clint to feel pressured. Next. I want TV time tonight. Eight o'clock, all the networks. Tell them Rona needs ten minutes."

"That may be—"

"Giving me all kinds of shit this morning! I ask you to do something, I get this face. Are you having cramps? Your boyfriend losing erections again? Is your moon square my sun in a bad sign? Rona Harvester is going to address the nation at eight o'clock. Who's going to object? I need Couric or Walters to boost my ratings? I'm hot. Right now I'm walking up to the South Portico and there are twenty cameras trained on me. My well-wishers are legion. Calls of love and support are coming in from everywhere. I'm the most talked-about woman on the fucking planet. It requires no explanation. Next. Effective immediately, we are moving our entire operation from our space to the southwest corner of the west wing."

"The Oval Office?!"

"Yes, Melissa. Now get that incredulous grin off your face while I take a bow," Rona concluded, turning for a last fists-in-the-air flourish to acknowledge distant cheers before disappearing inside the White House.

B
ob Hyde was halfway through a three-mile run along a back road of the FBI's turf on the Quantico Marine Reservation, where he had a weekend house. A member of Hyde's security detail, jogging a dozen feet behind him, took a cell phone call. After a few words he stepped up his pace to move abreast of the Director. Hyde glanced at the bodyguard and at the phone in his hand, looking annoyed. It was a warm morning and he had drunk too much the night before, while with the President pro tem and after, when he had entertained the loan-out mistress of a New York Congressman. Hyde never had had much of a sex drive, but as he got older he developed a perversion that occasionally he was driven to indulge. Otherwise he became morose to the point of depression. The act both thrilled and disgusted him. But his curiosity had been rewarded. The Congressman was right. For a mere slip of a girl, she owned an incredible bladder.