The Divine Appointment (37 page)

The Hart Building, Washington DC

Senator Proctor was livid. He stomped around his office, flinging epithets at Cooper Harrington. They had both watched Interim Director McFarland’s press conference and the telephone had been ringing off the wall with media requests for an interview or a comment. At his direction, Senator Proctor’s secretary finally stopped answering the phone.

“This is entirely your fault!” Senator Proctor screamed at Cooper.

Cooper cowered in front of him. He appeared frazzled and pale as death. “Everything’s going to be okay,” he mumbled.

Cooper’s voice was detached. Senator Proctor wasn’t certain that he was even talking to him.

“You’re not very convincing, Cooper. Everything’s not going to be okay. How can you say that?”

“The problems keep growing.”

“What’d you say?”

Cooper looked confused and shook his head, as if he were clearing his mind. His voice became more coherent. “Never mind. All we have to do is deny everything. We didn’t know Stella killed the Carlsons to get the Shelton Memo.”

“She came to my office as soon as Moretti gave it to her. That looks bad, Cooper. That looks really bad.”

“I know, but it’ll blow over in a couple of days. Once the press realizes that we were used by Stella, they’ll move on to something else. It won’t last two news cycles.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I know I’m right.”

Senator Proctor rubbed his forehead. “Let’s get a press release out immediately denying any knowledge of Stella Hanover’s role in the Shelton bombing and the Carlson murders.”

The Oval Office, the White House, Washington DC

Porter McIntosh sat on one of the sofas in the Oval Office. He closed his wireless.

“The press smells blood in the water,” Porter told President Wallace. “They’re all over Proctor.”

Porter had just finished speaking with one of his assistants and received that report from her. He and President Wallace had watched Interim Director McFarland’s press conference—a press conference orchestrated by Porter’s staff, using the information Porter had accumulated from Simon Webster—on Fox News and continued to watch the events as they unfolded. “And Proctor just released a statement denying any knowledge of Stella Hanover’s activities.”

“Plausible denial,” President Wallace commented from behind his desk.

“Denial, yes, but I’m not sure everyone’s buying the plausibility of it yet. And all we need is for the story to continue a couple of days.”

“What’re you hearing from the Senate?”

“All the other senators are stiff lipped so far. Nobody’s said anything yet.”

“With Proctor’s quick denial, they may all take a wait-and-see attitude. You think this story’s enough to turn the tide on Shelton?”

“I hope so,” Porter replied. “What else do we have?”

The Proctor residence, Washington DC

“Randy Dickerson had the print run through the OPM database,” Eli said.

Jill was using Evelyn Proctor’s landline phone again.

Eli continued, “And there’s a match.”

“Which one?”

“Guess.”

“Proctor,” Jill said, confident of her answer.

“Nope.”

“Cooper Harrington? Really? I wonder if Proctor told him to or if he did it on his own?”

“I don’t know. We may never know. But Randy Dickerson realizes we can at least create reasonable doubt with a jury. He may dismiss the charges.”

Jill pressed Off on the cordless phone and entered the Proctor study. Holland swiveled the computer chair toward the door when she entered.

“More information,” she announced to Holland. “The previously unidentified fingerprint from the Caldwell murder has now been identified.”

Holland stared at her, waiting for the answer.

Jill smiled and let him wait several seconds before she said, “Cooper Harrington.”

Holland spun back to the computer and started typing again. Thirty minutes later he transmitted a revised draft to Dan Bolding, incorporating the revelation of Cooper Harrington’s fingerprints in Jessica Caldwell’s town house. It was 3:30 p.m.

Holland waited ten minutes before dialing Dan’s direct number. “Did you get the last draft?”

“I got it. I’m talking to the editorial staff and legal counsel for approval. But I like it. Good work. You’ve scooped everyone in town. And you’re right. It may be bigger than the Shelton Memo story. Where are you, anyway?”

“I can’t tell you yet.”

“Are you and Miss Baker safe?”

“We’re safe.”

“Call me back in an hour.”

Holland and Jill left the study and entered the den of the Proctor house. Through the window they saw a locksmith’s box van parked in the driveway. A man was working on the front door. Evelyn Proctor supervised the work.

“What’s going on?” Holland asked in the direction of Evelyn.

Evelyn pivoted and faced Holland and Jill with another wicked grin. “I’m having the locks changed.”

Washington DC

Holland and Jill stayed awake past midnight waiting for the delivery of the Thursday-morning edition of the
Washington Post
. At 2:37 a.m. eastern time, they heard a car pass by the front of Evelyn Proctor’s brownstone. There was the
thud
of a newspaper landing in the driveway.

Holland dashed out to retrieve it while Jill waited inside the open door. Holland was breathless when he returned. Under the light in the foyer of the Proctor residence—and with Jill looking over his shoulder—Holland removed the rubber band from around the newspaper and unfolded it. The splash above the fold was an article by Holland Fletcher, investigative reporter.

The White House, Washington DC

Porter McIntosh had the White House staff awaken President Wallace at 5:00 a.m. Thursday. The president, wearing a burgundy bathrobe, met Porter just inside the main door to the White House living quarters. Porter handed him a copy of the
Washington Post
. President Wallace began to read the article above the fold and moved into a sitting area. Porter followed.

“Did you see who wrote the article?” Porter asked.

“Holland Fletcher.”

“That’s the cub reporter who wanted confirmation that Judge Shelton was the nominee before we released the name.”

President Wallace, his face still in the newspaper, settled into a leather Queen Anne chair. Porter stood in front of him.

“He’s come a long way since then,” the president said.

“The article about Stella Hanover and the Shelton Memo is on the bottom of the page.”

“I didn’t think anything would be a bigger story, but this is. I can’t believe it.”

“Proctor’s done for.”

“And Cooper Harrington, too,” President Wallace said. He looked at Porter. “Get the Senate pro tem on the phone as soon as you can. We still want the vote on Judge Shelton today, even if Proctor’s not there. Then start working the other senators. I can’t imagine any of them will want to side with Proctor on anything after this.”

Washington DC

Interim Director McFarland’s press conference and the disappearance of Holland Fletcher and Jill Baker drove Cooper Harrington to the Hawk ’n’ Dove Bar again. He arrived during happy hour and drank until after midnight. The bartender called a cab to take him home. He passed out on the sofa, still wearing his tie and suit coat.

At 6:10 a.m. on Thursday he awoke suddenly. The doorbell was ringing, and someone repeatedly banged on the front door.

“Cooper!” a voice yelled. “Cooper, open the door!”

After a few seconds Cooper recognized the voice as being Senator Proctor’s. Cooper shook the cobwebs from his head. His tongue felt thick, his head ached, and his eyes burned. He could barely remove himself from the sofa. But he finally stumbled to the door.

He opened it to Senator Proctor’s angry face. The senator looked as bad as Cooper felt.

“Have you seen this?” Senator Proctor thrust the morning edition of the
Washington Post
in his face.

Cooper took the newspaper from Senator Proctor’s hands and tried to focus his vision. “What is it?”

“Read it,” Senator Proctor barked.

Cooper backed away and began to read. Senator Proctor entered and slammed the door. They stood in the foyer of Cooper’s Chevy Chase town house. Cooper could hear Senator Proctor’s heavy breathing. The more Cooper read, the sicker he became. He stumbled back to the sofa with Senator Proctor on his heels.

“I thought you were going to handle this.” Senator Proctor, hands on his hips, stood over Cooper. He peered down at him.

Cooper’s face was in the newspaper. He looked up into Senator Proctor’s rage. “I was.”

“Then how did this happen?” the senator demanded.

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“I’m not going to jail, Cooper,” Senator Proctor yelled. “I’m not going to jail!”

“And I’m not going by myself,” Cooper declared. “I did all of this for you. To keep you in the Senate majority leader’s office. You’re crazy if you think I’m taking the fall by myself.”

Senator Proctor gritted his teeth. “This is all you, Cooper.”

Cooper struggled to his feet and looked Senator Proctor directly in the eyes. His gaze bore through the senator’s rage. Cooper had never stood up to Senator Proctor, but now he was backed into a corner. He had no choice.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Senator. I covered myself on this one. I’ve got dates and times and places. I even have you recorded giving me instructions to get rid of Ms. Caldwell. They’ll give me a sweet deal to roll over on you, and I plan on getting the best deal I can. No, Senator Proctor, this one’s all you.”

When it was over, Cooper couldn’t believe he’d said it. He thought for a moment that Senator Proctor was going to strike him. But he didn’t. He turned and stomped out, slamming the door as he left.

Cooper fell back onto the sofa, his clothes drenched with sweat, and cried uncontrollably.

Washington DC

“I’m going to stay until Sunday,” Jill told Eli.

Albert Johnson had taken her and Holland to retrieve their cars and wireless phones. It was 2:15 p.m. eastern time.

“I’ve renewed my rental and checked back in to the Hampton Inn. I didn’t pack enough clothes, so I’ll have to buy some new ones. I hate it.”

“I bet you do. Where are you?”

“I’m with Holland. We’re heading for his apartment. His editor called and said they’ve had at least six calls for Holland to give an interview for the evening news. And the Sunday morning programs are after him to appear on their shows this weekend.”

“You like this guy?”

Jill eyed Holland and smiled, but Holland didn’t appear to notice. He was face forward, driving his Camry, while she sat in the passenger seat. He had waited in the parking lot of the Hampton Inn while Jill showered and changed clothes. It had taken an hour, and he hadn’t complained.

“Yeah, I like him. We’ll see how things go.”

Holland glanced at Jill and raised his eyebrows.

Jill felt her face turn red. “But I haven’t told him yet. Ask me again on Monday.” Although Jill was speaking to Eli, she was really talking to Holland. “I’ll see how he acts this weekend.”

Holland straightened his back and came to attention, as if he were signaling that he would be on his best behavior.

Jill laughed at his antics.

“I’ll see you Monday then, Jill,” Eli said. “Have fun. You deserve it.”

“I will. See you Monday.”

Jill closed her wireless and exhaled. She contemplated what the next three days would bring…and whether they would alter her life forever.

Brentwood, Tennessee

Anna Grissom awoke on the last Sunday in July and found the other side of the bed empty. She glanced at the digital alarm clock: 7:04 a.m.

Eli had called Friday to tell them that Randy Dickerson planned to ask Judge Blackwood to dismiss the charges against Tag. And he’d said the one thing that Tag had longed for years to hear. The great Senator Lance Proctor was being prosecuted for murder—the murder of Jessica Caldwell. But Randy had also promised Eli that he would reopen the investigation into the death of Tag’s mother.

Anna had begun to notice a change in Tag almost instantly. It was as if he had a new lease on life.

“Tag,” she called out sleepily.

There was no response.

She arose from bed, slipped into a blue satin robe, and walked to the master bathroom. Not finding Tag there, she searched his study, adjacent to the den. It was vacant.

After that she went to the kitchen. There stood Tag, behind the ceramic-tiled island drinking from a white coffee mug. He wore brown slacks. A white, starched shirt. A sports coat. And an anxious face.

“Tag, what are you doing up so early and dressed?”

Tag scanned his clothing, then looked at Anna. “We’re going to church, aren’t we?”

Anna grinned. “Yes, we are. But the early service doesn’t start for another two hours.”

“I know,” Tag said. “But I don’t want to be late.”

Anna moved toward Tag, put her arms around his neck, and gazed into his eyes. A solitary tear trickled down her cheek. Anna couldn’t recall the last time they had even held hands, much less each other.

“Are we going to be all right, Tag?”

“I hope so,” he murmured.

The events of the last few months raced through Anna’s mind…then disappeared. She trusted that the horrible memories were gone forever. Because for the first time in a long time, she could see love and hope and possibility—visible in Tag’s eyes.