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It was a moment before she came up with a rejoinder she liked. "Tall."

He actually cracked a smile, albeit a fleeting one.

"Parents?" she asked.

"Two."

"Give me a break, Bondurant."

After a moment he said, "My mother and father were killed when a spin-off tornado from a hurricane struck their place of business."

"I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "How old were you?"

"Nine. Thereabouts."

She had a hard time grasping that-not that his parents had been casualties of a storm, but that he'd actually been a child. She couldn't imagine him as a carefree little boy, playing with other children, engaging in games at birthday parties, ripping open presents with family members gathered around the Christmas tree.

"That morning in Wyoming, you told me you learned ranching from your father."

"He always kept a herd of beef cattle. But he also ran a fix-it shop in town. Wasn't an engine in the state he couldn't fix. And Mother was almost as good with a wrench as he was."

Barrie noticed a rare softness about his stern mouth. "You loved them."

He shrugged. "I was a kid. Kids always love their parents."

Even when they aren't lovable, Barrie thought. "Who raised you after they died?"

"Alternately, both sets of grandparents. They were good people. They're all dead now."

"Siblings?" she asked.

"A sister. Still lives in Grady. Mother of four, married to a CPA who's president of the school board and a deacon in the Baptist church."

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"That must be nice for you, having nieces and nephews to spoil."

"I don't see them."

"How come?"

"My brother-in-law thinks I'm dangerous."

"Are you?"

He turned his head. Laser-beam eyes seemed to spear straight through her.

"Haven't you figured that out by now?"

"Yes." She lowered her gaze. "I think you might be very dangerous."

Staring through the windshield, she realized that without her noticing, dusk had deepened into full-blown night. The woods on both sides of the two-lane highway were dark. After several moments, she said, "That call I received before we left Daily's house was from my source in Justice."

"You have a source in the Justice Department?"

"Is that so surprising?"

"Who? Which division? How senior?"

"You know I can't tell you that."

"Well then, I guess we'll just have to hope he's not one of Spence's moles."

Ignoring the barb, Barrie said, "My source told me that you and Merritt were in a closed-door meeting today."

"That's right."

"Funny you didn't mention it to Daily or me."

"There was nothing to it."

"You had fifteen minutes alone with the President of the United States and there was nothing to it?"

"I just dropped in-"

"Dropped in? I could drop in, but David Merritt would never give me a private audience."

"I've got friends in the Secret Service. I showed up unannounced so I could gauge his reaction to seeing me."

"Which was?"

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"He almost crapped in his shorts."

He recapped for her their conversation, then added, "I let him know that Spence had failed to carry out his last mission."

"And that's all there was to it?"

"That's all."

"Maybe."

He glanced at her, his eyes suspicious. "Why would your source contact you about my visit with David?"

"Out of concern for my safety. My source is a little edgy about the company I'm keeping. For instance, it was suggested to me that the President could be using you to lay a trap for a meddlesome reporter he wants kept quiet."

"I no longer work for the President."

"So you claim. But I wonder just how many layers there are to your relationship with the Merritts. You were Merritt's blood brother before you became his wife's lover. That could create a lot of ambiguity." His hands curled tighter around the steering wheel. "Why don't you say what you're thinking."

"I'm thinking that perhaps your loyalties are hopelessly divided." He shot her another fiery glare, but he neither confirmed nor denied the allegation.

"Was my name mentioned in the meeting?" she wanted to know.

He nodded.

"In what context?"

"I told him I was boinking you."

Barrie felt her cheeks turn scarlet. "I prefer that over your other word, although it's still crude."

"That's the way I remember it being. Crude."

"Did he happen to shed any light on Vanessa?" she asked, bringing him back to the subject.

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"Nothing new."

"Would you tell me if he had?"

"Probably not."

"Why?"

"Because you're already in over your head."

"For an exclusive story that'll rock the world, I'm willing to take a few risks."

"Well, I'm not," he said shortly. "I'm not willing to risk my life, or Vanessa's, or even yours, just so you can negotiate an extra few thou on your next contract. I'm trying to get us through this alive, and I don't want my strategy compromised by an amateur with stars in her eyes."

That stung. "I'm a professional."

"Maybe in TV news," he said. "But at Highpoint, we're not going to be facing studio cameras. We're going to be facing armed men. You're not up to it."

"I'm tougher than you think."

"Oh, I know you're gutsy. I seem to recall exactly how far you'll go to get your story. Or have you forgotten?"

Since he seemed bound and determined to get a reaction from her, Barrie lowered her voice to a sultry pitch and said, "No, I haven't forgotten. I haven't forgotten a moment of it. More to the point, Bondurant, neither have you."

Her table-turning worked. A muscle in his jaw twitched. Smiling smugly, she returned her gaze to the road ahead.

Her complacency was short-lived. "Look out!" she screamed.

With the hair-trigger reaction of a trained commando, he swerved to avoid a collision. Coming around the bend were four motorcycle policemen, riding two abreast. Following them were a fire truck, an official-looking car, and an ambulance. All were traveling at high speed.

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Gray hugged the ditch in the opposing lane until all the vehicles had streaked past, then he executed a hairpin U-turn and took off after them.

"You're going to follow them?"

"Damn straight."

"But why would-?"

"Overhead," Gray said, answering her question before it was completed. She pressed her cheek against the window and saw two helicopters bank steeply as they rose above the treetops. "Your anonymous source was right.

Something's happened."

"But Highpoint is over there," she said, pointing in the opposite direction.

"The presidential retreat is on the other side of the lake, but this whole area is called Highpoint. Dr. George Allan's weekend home is on that ridge." He motioned with his chin toward the approximate spot in the forest from which the helicopters had taken off. "That's where they've been keeping Vanessa."

"How do you know?"

"I had a hunch, and it's just been confirmed. That car behind the fire truck was government issue, probably Secret Service."

His hands were still planted firmly on the steering wheel. He had the accelerator of Barrie's car on the floorboard to keep up with the taillights of the last vehicle in the emergency motorcade.

"What do you think this means?"

"What do you think?" he asked tightly.

She was reluctant to voice her thoughts. "Dr. Allan wouldn't harm her. Not deliberately. Not with the Secret Service guarding her."

"The White House was crawling with Secret Service the night the baby died.

That didn't stop the doctor from

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claiming that the kid died of SIDS. If David's got George Allan's balls in a vise, he'll say and do just about anything."

They followed the motorcade into Shinlin, a picturesque, well-tended community of about fifteen thousand. Because of the town's proximity to the presidential retreat, the locals were accustomed to having motorcades disrupt the serenity of their tree-lined streets.

Gray maintained a discreet distance. He was two blocks behind the vehicles when they pulled into the emergency entrance of the hospital.

Barrie looked at Gray. "If Vanessa needs emergency medical attention, why wasn't she brought here by helicopter?"

Before either could speculate, the rear doors of the ambulance burst open, disgorging George Allan. The doctor was disheveled and overwrought. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows; his hair was standing on end, as though he'd been raking it with his fingers. He, the driver, and another paramedic lifted a gurney from the ambulance.

Strapped to the gurney was a sheet-draped form.

"Oh, my God, no!" Barrie cried.

The paramedics rolled the gurney toward the automatic glass doors. The two men in the government sedan got out and somberly fell into step behind the gurney as it was wheeled into the hospital.

Dr. George Allan bent from his waist and vomited onto the pavement.

70) hen Clete Armbruster's telephone rang, waking him from a deep sleep, he rolled over and checked the clock on the nightstand. "Goddamn." A call at this hour portended an emergency of some sort. "Yeah'?"

"Senator Armbruster?"

Expecting the clipped articulation of an aide, he wasn't prepared for the soft, husky, female voice more suited to sex than heralding bad news.

Ironically, that caused him to panic. It had been a while since he'd retained the services of a professional, but the first thought that streaked through his mind was that one of his past companions had been instructed to notify all her former clients of a life-threatening virus.

"Who is this?"

"Barrie Travis. Vanessa's friend. The reporter."

The senator irritably kicked off the covers, swinging his thick feet and legs to the floor as he sat up. For Barrie Travis to call herself Vanessa's friend was a real stretch. It was even more of a stretch for her to call herself a reporter. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why Vanessa had granted her the recent interview.

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"What do you want?"

"I must talk to you. It's about Vanessa."

"Do you know what time it is? How'd you get my private number, anyhow?

Didn't my office staff make it clear to you that I will not discuss my daughter with members of the press?"

"This isn't that kind of call, sir."

"Who do you think you're kidding? Good night."

"Senator! Please don't hang up!"

The anxiety in her voice caused him to reconsider. Taking the cordless phone into the bathroom with him, he stood over the toilet and relieved himself. "What's going on? Another explosion?"

"It's imperative that I see you."

"What for?"

"I can't tell you until I see you."

He chuckled as he flushed the commode. "I can hardly stand the suspense."

"I assure you, Senator Armbruster, that this is not a journalist's trick, nor is it anything to laugh about or to dismiss lightly. Please believe me when I say it's of the utmost importance. Will you meet me?"

He rubbed his head. "Ah, Christ. I'll probably live to regret it, but call my office tomorrow and make an appointment."

"You don't understand. I need to see you immediately. Right now."

"Now? It's the middle of the goddamn night."

"Please. I'm at a diner in Shinlin, corner of Lincoln Street and Paul's Meadow Road. I'll be waiting for you."

She hung up, and the senator blistered the walls of his bedroom with expletives. Slamming down the telephone, he lowered himself to the edge of the bed and splashed some Jack Daniel's into a glass. He drank the shot in one swallow

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and had every intention of ignoring the call and going back to sleep. But again he hesitated. What the hell could that reporter know about Vanessa that couldn't wait until morning?

As though it were a mortal enemy, he stared balefully at the telephone.

He wouldn't be able to return to sleep. Besides, there'd been an urgency in her voice that seemed genuine.

He got up and dressed. In ten minutes, he was in his car driving to Shinlin. He knew the town because he'd visited Highpoint so many times. It was mindless driving.

His memory drifted back to another night, eighteen years ago, when he'd been awakened in the middle of the night. He'd been taking a few days'

vacation at his farm in rural Mississippi. The pace of life there was slow and virtually carefree. Except on that night.

He was awakened by an insistent ringing of his doorbell. The housekeeper came from her room behind the kitchen, pulling tight the belt of her robe, but Clete reached the front door first.

David Merritt stood on the threshold, dripping rainwater like a near-drowned cat and looking about as wretched. A lightning flash revealed long, bloody scratches along his cheek.

"What in hell happened to you?" Clete exclaimed.

"I'm sorry to get you up, but I had to see you immediately."

"What's wrong? Did you have an accident?"

David glanced apprehensively toward the housekeeper. Clete dismissed her and she returned to her room.

Clete then led David into his study, turned on the shaded desk lamp, and poured the young man a brandy. David sat on the windowseat, cupped the snifter with both hands, and downed the contents in one swallow.

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"You usually don't drink like that," Clete observed, as he passed David a handkerchief to stanch the bleeding scratches on his face. "Whatever's eating you must be bad. So, let's have it."

Clete stretched out in his leather recliner and reached for a cigar. David rose and began to pace.

"There's this girl."

"I figured," Clete said, waving out the match he'd used to light his cigar.

"I met her when we were here last summer."