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"Deputy Warden Foote Graham."

"Thank you very much for calling me back, Warden."

"No problem, ma'am. How can I he'p you?"

She identified herself as a broadcast journalist in Washington, D.C., and told him about the repeated calls from Charlene Waiters.

"She pesterin' y'all?"

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"No, it's not that. I just wondered why Ms. Waiters would be calling me."

"There's no tellin' what Crazy Charlene might do."

Barrie looked up at Gray, who was intently gauging her facial expressions.

She frowned, shook her head, and rolled her eyes. "Crazy Charlene?" she repeated for his benefit.

"Yes, ma'am. Seventy-seven years old, but Charlene's still full of piss

'n' vinegar."

"Seventy-seven? Good Lord, how long has she been in prison?"

"She's a lifer. No parole. Been here since I came, and that's going on eighteen years. I think she's outlasted everybody. Nobody remembers when of Charlene wasn't here. She's sort of like a . . . what do you call it?

A mascot. She's a leader. Well liked by the other inmates. And quite a character, too. She'll give you her opinion on any subject whether you ask for it or not."

"Then it comes as no surprise to you that she saw my story on TV and decided to call."

"Doesn't surprise me a'tall. What was the story about?"

"Sudden Infant Death Syndrome."

"Hmm. I thought you might've touched on a subject dearer to her heart.

She's pretty outspoken about corruption in the government, police brutality, legalizing dope, issues like that."

"What was her crime?"

"She and her husband held up a liquor store. For less than fifty bucks, he shot a sixteen-year-old clerk and three customers in the head. The state executed him a while back. Because Charlene didn't actually pull the trigger, and she swore her old man made her go along or else, she wasn't given the death penalty."

"None of that relates to SIDS, does it?"

"Not that I can figger."

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"Well, thank you very much for your time. I apologize again for calling you at this hour, Mr. Foote."

"Graham, Foote Graham. No problem. Glad to've been of service."

Barrie was about to say goodbye when Gray nudged her, triggering her memory. "Oh, Warden Graham, one last question. I don't suppose Charlene has any ties, no matter how remote, to Senator Armbruster or President Merritt?"

"The President? Well, why didn't you say so in the first place?"

Her heart seemed to stop. Everything in the universe shrank small enough to be concentrated into the grimy telephone receiver she was gripping with fingers that had turned as white as chalk.

"What'd he say?" Gray asked, inching closer.

She motioned for him to be quiet. The warden was saying, "It's entirely possible that Charlene has some connection to both our senator and President Merritt."

"How so?" Barrie asked huskily.

"Any number of ways. You see, Charlene gets around."

"I thought you said she was a lifer."

"That's true. But if you're to believe Charlene, she led a colorful life before her incarceration. For starters, she was Robert Redford's college sweetheart. That came on the heels of her fling with Richard Nixon.

Somewhere in there she had Elvis's love child, and engaged in one of those French threesomes with Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio while they were married. Charlene takes credit for inspiring him to invent the Mr. Coffee."

Barrie slumped against the wall of the phone booth. "I get the picture.

She's a loony tune."

"As loony as they come," he said, filling her ear with laughter that was much more melodious than the guard's.

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After a moment, he said, "I'm sorry to be laughing at your expense, Miz Travis. Was this real important to you?"

"Yes."

"Awful sorry, ma'am. Guess you've wasted your time."

"Not altogether," she said with chagrin. "I've never met anyone named Foote before."

Once she and Gray were in the car again, she ripped the slip of paper bearing Charlene's name and number into tiny pieces and let them flutter from her hand to the floor. "Responding to a crank caller," she said with self-derision. "That ought to be some indication of how desperate I am. I'd hate for Howie or Jenkins to know that I'd sunk that low."

"It could've turned out different."

"Don't patronize me," she said crossly. "It was a stupid impulse, and I'm ashamed I acted on it. Problem is, I'm fresh out of ideas. If Howie doesn't produce, what then?"

"What about your sources?"

"You haven't heard my pager beeping, have you?"

"Checked the batteries?"

She scowled at him. "'The pager isn't malfunctioning, 8ondurant, I am. As far as journalism goes, I'm washed up in Washington."

"You still have a way with words."

The more he tried to boost her spirits, the more recalcitrant she became.

"Nobody, not even the most secret unidentified source, wants to be associated with me. I couldn't get a job cleaning toilets in any news facility in this city, maybe in the country."

Leaning her head back, she sighed. "I meant about ninety percent of what I said tonight before we set out. I do wish I had my life back. I miss Cronkite. I miss my house. It was no palace, but it was my home. I miss my work, the deadlines, the rush I get when I'm on the scene of an event, the gratification I feel when I put together a good piece. God EXCLUSIVE 315

forbid, I think I even miss Howie, because it was almost good to see him tonight."

Gray looked at her askance. "You must be suffering a severe case of self-pity."

"Aren't you, just a little? Don't you miss your ranch and your horses, your precious solitude? Don't you sometimes wish I'd never come calling?"

"But you did come calling. So what difference would wishes make now? For the past year I've been retired, but I knew I'd see action of some sort again. Subconsciously I was waiting to see what form it would take. The catalyst turned out to be Robert Rushton Merritt's death. Who could have predicted that? Nobody. Ultimately, we can never know what's going to happen to us next." He raised one shoulder in an indifferent shrug. "I take things as they come and try not to look back."

"God, don't you ever crack? Don't you ever let one human emotion pierce that damn armor of yours? Can't you ever just let go and feel?"

When her voice cracked, she shut up so he wouldn't know that she was on the verge of tears. Yes, she felt like a fool for tracking down a crank caller. Yes, she was frustrated because they hadn't penetrated the wall of secrecy surrounding Vanessa. For all they knew, she might already be dead.

Barrie was more convinced than ever that making himself a widower was Merritt's ultimate goal. Each day that Barrie failed to expose him, he moved closer to succeeding.

Yes, she was worried about Daily, because he looked and sounded increasingly bad. He put up a good front, but she knew he was declining.

His specialist had said there was nothing more to be done. The disease had progressed to a stage where even the most aggressive and innovative treat-ments wouldn't benefit him and would only diminish the quality of the life he had left.

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Yes, yes, yes. All those concerns were troubling her tonight. But the number-one, champion tear maker was the man beside her. Gray Bondurant remained an enigma. They'd been intimate, but she didn't know him. Despite all the time they'd spent together, he was as much a stranger as he'd been that first morning, maybe even more of one.

That's why she felt like crying. She'd caressed his body, but she hadn't touched him.

Throwing down her caution, she said, "How can you not care about anything or anyone? What made you such an unfeeling bastard?"

A full minute of hostile silence passed before he said, "My folks died on the same day. Zap. They were gone. I was a kid. It hurt. But I got over it and came to rely on my grandparents. Then, one by one, they died. My sister and I were close, but her husband didn't take to me. He and her kids came first with her, so she more or less shut me out of their lives.

"I formed strong friendships with two men I trusted. I could read their thoughts before they thought them, aced vice versa. We were as close as three heterosexual men can be. Then they betrayed me and have tried twice to kill me." He shrugged. "I guess I don't see any advantage to forming relationships."

It was more of himself than he'd revealed before. Yet, something was noticeably absent from his soul-baring monologue. "You left out the part about Vanessa and the baby," Barrie said. "You failed to mention that the love of your life was another man's wife."

Tersely, he said, "Yeah. I left that part out."

"cSenator?"

Clete addressed the speakerphone on his desk. "What is it, Carol?"

"Gray Bondurant wishes to speak to you."

Clete rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Tell him I'm not here."

"This is the third time he's called in two days."

"I don't care how many times he's called, I'm not going to talk to him.

What about Dr. Allan?"

"I'm still trying to reach him, but I'm told he's unavailable."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"The White House staff hasn't been more specific than that, sir."

George Allan had called to inform him that Vanessa hadn't responded well to the adjustment he'd made on her medication. He'd also hinted that she was drinking heavily again. The upshot of the conversation had been to tell the senator that he was placing her in a private hospital for observation.

Until she was stabilized, it was best that she not 318 Sandra Brown

have visitors. In fact, prohibition of visitors was hospital policy. It was goddamn Highpoint all over again. Vanessa had been shuttled off without so much as a goodbye to him, and she was unreachable. Allan had ended by saying he didn't expect her to be confined for a more than a few days.

As chairman of the Senate Finance Committee, Clete had been buried in meetings over the reconciliation budget. His presence was mandatory, but he had difficulty concentrating on the country's finances when worrying about his daughter. The doctor was dodging his calls. David hadn't deigned even to call and speak with him personally. It was beginning to stink. To high heaven. And part of the stench was Clete's own rising panic.

"Do they know it's me who's calling?"

"Of course, sir."

"Then I wish to speak to the President immediately."

While she was putting the call through, Clete left his desk and moved to the large window. He'd had the same view for more than thirty years, but he never tired of it. The automobiles on Washington's broad avenues changed. Clothing styles came and went. Seasons rotated. But the stalwart edifices of the United States government endured.

The emotional surge he derived from gazing at them couldn't be described as patriotism. It was more base than a love for his country. It was a passion for the power circulating within those buildings that gave him a rush of excitement not unlike an erection. He adhered to the adage that power was the strongest aphrodisiac. There was nothing to equal it. Nothing else even came close.

Any man worth his salt struggled to attain power. Then, once he had it, he fought like hell to keep it. It was inevitable that someone younger than he would seize the power he now

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wielded in Washington. But not today, and not tomorrow. He would choose the time to pass the baton.

And it wasn't going to go to David Merritt.

His secretary buzzed him again. "I'm sorry, Senator. The President's calendar is completely full today, and tonight he's scheduled to fly to Atlanta. He's not due back until midafternoon tomorrow."

Clete mulled that over for several seconds. "Thanks, Carol. Keep trying to reach that quack Allan. And get rid of Bondurant."

"Yes, sir."

Returning to his desk, he placed his feet up on it and swiveled back and forth in his well-worn leather chair as he contemplated his next move.

David had acted faster than Clete had expected. He had figured David would let the heat cool down before trying again to eliminate the only witness to his child-killing.

Yes, Clete believed everything Bondurant and Barrie Travis had told him that night in the coffee shop. He'd taken whacks at Travis's credibility, but what choice had she given him? He'd been forced to create a ruckus over her gaffe in the hospital, or risk looking like a damn fool himself. He'd railed at her, but his wrath had been directed to his treacherous son-in-law.

Barrie Travis was a flake, but Bondurant wasn't. Clete might have doubted their story had she been the only one telling it, but he didn't doubt Bondurant. He'd never particularly liked the former Marine-cum-presidential aide. The man was taciturn to a fault. He wore his integrity on his sleeve. Clete mistrusted anybody that honest and straightforward.

Clete had never known Bondurant to lie. He'd evaded questions about his affair with Vanessa, which could be construed as lying by omission, but Clete regarded his silence as

320 Sandra Brown

a gallant attempt to protect Vanessa from scandal, not to shield himself.

Knowing David's personality as he did, knowing of the incident involving a young woman named Becky Sturgis, Clete had no doubt that David could smother a child he knew wasn't his.

Clete chastened himself for not suspecting it earlier. The son of a bitch had tricked both him and Vanessa into believing that he wanted children.

For years, she had tried all the remedies for infertility. David had refused to seek medical advice. Now Clete knew why. The bastard was firing blanks and didn't want anyone to know. Furthermore, he had subtly laid the blame of their childlessness on Vanessa, feeding her sense of inadequacy, which was a fundamental symptom of her illness.

Of course, Clete's conscience wasn't entirely clear. He had to assume partial responsibility for the spousal abuse his daughter had suffered.