Terror in D.C. (11 page)

Or would she?

It irritated Hawker even more that he cared.

He sat in a heavy leather chair across the desk from her. The desk was a huge polished oval of mahogany. On it was a pale leather blotter, neat baskets of correspondence, a brass nameplate, and a quill pen in an inkwell. In one corner of the room was the American flag; in the other corner, the flag of the state that had elected her. On the wall were photographs of her with the President and with various other world leaders.

They had spent the first hour in fast and easy, often humorous conversation about subjects that seemed to link together in a chain. He had gotten his tan in Florida? She loved Florida, yes, especially the west coast. He must know a great deal about fishing. She loved to fish for tarpon, but could he
really
teach her how to use a fly rod well enough to take a fish that size? And so the conversation went. From fishing to boats to Key West to Lake Michigan to their mutual friend Jacob Montgomery Hayes, to Chicago to great vacation spots to Little Cayman Island. Hawker was so captivated by her curious blend of girlishness, beauty, intellect, sexuality, and maturity that he had to keep reminding himself that this wasn't just a woman he was talking to, this was a well-rehearsed, well-schooled package known as a United States senator. She was no more attracted to him than she was the average friend-of-a-friend from off the street.

Finally embarrassed by his own schoolboy emotion, Hawker forced himself to turn abruptly businesslike.

“Senator Estes,” he said, “I know you're a busy person, so maybe I'd better ask my questions and let you get about your business.”

The woman leaned back in her chair, her eyebrows raised. “Jake Hayes said you had a one-track mind when it came to your … profession. So far, everything he's told me about you has proven true.”

“Oh?”

“Yes—and it's all good, by the way.” She smiled. “Why do you look at me like that? It's because you're surprised Jake would talk to anybody about you, isn't it? Don't worry, James. Jake and I are very old and very dear friends. I've been hearing about you ever since that … that terrible night when his son was murdered. Since then, I have heard a great deal about James Hawker. He's awfully fond of you, you know. He says you're one of the great anachronisms. He says you're really from another time, a time of quests and knights and ladies fair. But you probably know Jake's penchant for mysticism—reincarnation and such things. I must say, though, he painted an awfully attractive picture of you.”

“That was kind of Jacob, Senator Estes, but right now I think we ought to discuss the reason I am here.”

“Certainly, James, but I'm in no hurry. Really. And, please call me Thy—as in
the
ater, remember.” She settled back over the desk, smiling.

“Okay … Thy. It may be painful for you to talk about so soon, but I'd like to know more about your late sister, Betty Rutledge, and her family.”

The smile slowly gave way to a look of resignation. “I'll help you in any way I can.”

Hawker nodded, sorry that he had stripped away her energized facade with one chilling sentence. “I'm not even sure what I want to know, Thy,” he began. “Anything might help. The little things can sometimes be pieced together to make a very important chunk of the puzzle. I guess what I'm looking for is some clue to explain why your sister's home was chosen out of all the houses in Bethesda to be bombed.”

“But the bombings are random, aren't they, James? That's what everyone says.”

“Maybe they are, Thy. But I get real uncomfortable when people start connecting coincidence with premeditated murder. It's a damn rare combination. It's possible, sure—maybe even probable in this case. Terrorists motivated by a political or religious cause seldom go by the book. But before I accept the killings as random, I need to prove it to myself. It seems very unlikely that the terrorists would murder more than two dozen people in seven different attacks without knowing at least a few of the victims.”

The senator thought for a moment. “When you put it that way, James, it makes sense. It's hard to believe that they would kill that many people without grinding a few personal axes.” She looked at him pointedly. “What about last night in Wells Church? Was
that
random? Or had they already picked out their victims?”

Hawker returned her level gaze. “Last night? How would I know? All I know is what I read in the papers, Senator.”

“I see. Is that the way you want it, James?”

“I'm afraid that's the way it has to be.”

“I don't know why, but you make one anxious to be taken into your confidence, anxious to earn some demonstration of your respect. I'm sorry I don't yet qualify. But, if the day did come when you felt you could trust me, I would be very pleased to listen.”

Her green eyes were earnest, her face handsomer for its seriousness, and once again Hawker felt the schoolboy rush of emotion. What did they used to call it? Smitten. That's right, he was smitten. He wanted to take the woman in his arms and hold her close and treat her as kindly as one human being can treat another.

Instead, he shrugged with cold indifference. “I'm still waiting to hear about your late sister's family.”

“I don't really even know how to begin.”

“How about with the fact that you are the only woman on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. Do you think there's any chance of a connection? Maybe the terrorists were trying to hurt you by bombing your sister's house.”

“God, I'd never even thought about that—”

“And you don't need to think about it unless the terrorists have let you know that you are the reason. To hurt you, they would have to inform you. How about it, Senator Estes? Any cryptic notes or anonymous calls?”

The woman thought for a moment. “No-o-o-o. Nothing that I would consider suspicious.”

“Any important hearings coming up that might fare better if you weren't at full emotional strength?”

“That would be a possibility at almost any other time of the year—but not now. You see, we're getting ready for a short spring recess.”

“Have you made any enemies in the Mideastern diplomatic corps?”

“Who can say what those people think? They all smile like stray dogs. But I think that I am on reasonably good terms with most of them.”

Hawker scowled at the wall.

“I'm afraid I'm not helping much,” the woman smiled, getting up from her desk. She came around the corner and touched Hawker's arm gently. The vigilante drew his arm away at the heat of her touch, and the woman smiled at him as she might at a teenager who had stumbled over his feet. “Why don't we continue this conversation over dinner?” she suggested.

“I'm afraid I already have plans,” Hawker heard himself say—and immediately hated himself for telling such a stupid lie.

“Oh? Oh. I see.” The smile brightened. “Well, you can at least walk me to my car then. We can talk more on the way.”

“I'd be happy to, Senator—”

“It's
Thy
, damn it!”

fifteen

The man confronted them in the back parking lot, a huge balding man with pale-pink skin and bowling-ball fists. He weaved toward them, his expensive suit wrinkled, tie loosened, slurring his words and scowling like a man with murder on his mind.

Thy Estes stopped cold when she saw him, then pulled instinctively closer to Hawker.

“So where is the snooty bitch off to tonight?” the man roared, charging closer. “The Far East? The White House? Or maybe just that red-haired asshole's bed.”

Hawker looked quickly at the woman beside him. Her face had gone stern, pale, fearful.

“Didn't even return my calls … damn secretary told me you were out of the office—”

“I was out of the office, Jack!”

“Lying bitch!”

The big man grabbed her wrist with his right hand and tried to push Hawker roughly aside with his shoulder. The vigilante stomped down hard on the arch of his foot and grabbed him by the lapels when he opened his mouth to roar in pain.

“I don't know who you are, friend, but I think you ought to go crawl in a corner and sleep it off.”

The big man took a lumbering swing at Hawker. The vigilante ducked under it, then stepped away from a ponderous left hook. Hawker shoved him roughly away. “Friend, even drunks can go too far. Now I'll give you one last warning—”

The man threw himself at Hawker, catching him with a painful right to the side of the neck. Hawker's face flushed. He drove his left hand deep into the man's soft belly, then hit him with a halfhearted punch to the jaw. The big man backpedaled and fell to the asphalt, out cold.

“Jesus,” said Hawker in disbelief, “I didn't even hit him hard.”

The woman said nothing and walked quickly to the side of the fallen man. She knelt over him and checked his pulse, then drew open an eyelid to check his pupils.

She stood abruptly. Her face was red, half anger, half pain. “Let's go,” she snapped.

“But, Senator, we can't just leave him—”

“Please, James, let's go.
Now.”

The vigilante shrugged and walked her quickly toward the line of parked cars.

“Which one is yours?”

“I'm not taking my car,” she said, almost whispering.

“What?”

“I'm going with you, James. Please. Please don't ask me to explain.” She looked at him, green eyes flashing. “And please don't repeat that phony line about your having another appointment.”

“Yes, ma'am!”

“Something you will learn very quickly about me is that I have an uncanny knack for reading people. Our friend Jake Hayes says it's because I'm parapsychic. I prefer to think I have a built-in bullshit detector.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“And quit calling me, ‘ma'am'!”

“Yes …
Thy!”

“Then let's go.”

“And just leave that jerk back there unconscious?”

The woman shook herself, furious. “In the first place, he's not unconscious—I looked at his eyes, remember? He's playing possum. He's a coward.” She looked up at the vigilante, her face still red and her eyes still glittering, and slid her arm beneath his. “In the second place, Mr. Hawker, he can drive my car home when he sobers up. You see, that jerk is my husband.”

Hawker had driven them along Constitution Avenue, past the statue of Grant, past the Smithsonian Institution, then north on Ninth Street, past Ford's Theatre, where the curtain rang down on Abraham Lincoln. The woman directed him as he drove, and they ended up at a tiny Greek restaurant drinking ouzo, eating stuffed grape leaves and lamb, and talking unreservedly.

She had spoken with subdued emotion about her husband's drinking problem, how she felt partially to blame for it, that they were unable to have children, how their marriage had crumbled, why they now stayed together for the sake of appearances. Then she had turned to another unhappy subject—the death of her sister and her sister's family. Her stories were filled with obvious affection, sometimes humor, and, finally, tears.

Hawker had listened sympathetically, saying little, letting the emotion drain out of her at its own pace. As he listened, he sipped at the clear, anise-flavored ouzo, which, when poured over ice, turned a milky white. Ouzo was one of the more devastating liqueurs in the world, and the vigilante was careful not to drink it too quickly. The senator, he noticed, was not being quite as careful. He made no effort to caution her. She was no fool, and she certainly wasn't naive. She knew exactly what she was doing.

“And that's the story of my dear sister and her lovely family,” Thy Estes said, wiping her eyes and fighting back a case of the sniffles. “Now there's only poor young Luke left—for some reason, he was out on the street when the bomb went off. And I'm not so sure he wouldn't have been better off if he had been inside. He saw what the bomb did to his family. He saw the wreckage and the bits and pieces of his father and sisters and baby brother. They put him in a psychiatric ward, you know. The dear child won't say any word but ‘Daddy'—not even to me. He just stares off into space. And he is such a damn bright boy!”

“They must have loved each other very much,” Hawker put in softly.

“They were an extremely close family. And do you know what troubles me more than anything? I talked to Betty on the telephone the night before they were killed. She seemed very upset about something. Finally, she told me Luke and her husband had had a very bitter argument. Something about her husband backing down from three students in a fight, and embarrassing Luke—” Hawker suddenly straightened in his chair, now very interested in what the woman was saying. “I so wish Luke and Chester hadn't had that fight. I'm sure Luke must be thinking about it now and feeling guilty—”

“What kind of students?” Hawker interrupted. “Why would three students challenge a grown man to a fight?”

The senator looked confused for a moment. “College students, I guess. Apparently they ran a stop sign and did some minor damage to Chester's car. But that's not the point, James—”

“Maybe not, Thy, but I'd like to hear more about it. Give me all the details you have.”

The woman shrugged, poured herself an inch of ouzo in a whiskey tumbler, and said, “I guess the accident happened the day I called, a Thursday. No one was hurt, but the students refused to stay at the scene until the police came. Chester, of course, insisted that they stay. The students became very abusive, swearing at him and calling him all kinds of foul names. Luke was there, and he apparently lost his temper. He wanted to fight the three college guys, but his dad held him back. That night, I guess they argued, and Lukie called his dad a coward. Betty was very upset, of course. Luke and Chester were normally very close.”