The Plot (10 page)

"Running out of time?"

"Yes. You see, the situation has changed."

"What situation has changed?” A million possibilities flashed through her mind.

"The FBI has gotten involved."

"The FBI? Why? I thought they only cared about crimes against the government and interstate stuff.” She frowned as she spoke.

He lowered his voice. “They
say
that's why they are taking over the case-national security.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

"What do you mean ‘taking over'?” She fidgeted, uncomfortable with the thought.

"They're taking Metro D.C-and me-off the investigation. They've demanded that we turn everything we have over to them."

She looked into his eyes. “You mean they're taking over the whole investigation? Daddy's death? The burglary?"

He nodded, frowning. “All except the body they found in the lake in Virginia. They have no real jurisdiction there. Although they could probably trump something up if they decide it's to their advantage."

Cassie stood, picked up the dessert dishes and forks, and walked to the sink.
Keep this under your hat. Trust no one.
She shook her head as if that physical action would clear the turmoil from her mind.
Telephone monitored by the authorities.
She looked over her shoulder, her eyes falling on the secret photos he had shown her.
Our very way of life hangs in the balance.
She forced herself to look at the investigator. He was watching her. Waiting.

She turned back toward the sink, rinsed the dishes, and dried her hands on the dish towel.
Hong Kong. FBI. Firethorne.
With a deep breath, she made up her mind and turned to face the man who had asked for her help.

"Max?"

His voice was low and even, but his eyes were intense. “Yes, Cassie."

"I don't trust the Feds."

He nodded, took some papers from his briefcase, and leaned back in the chair. “Your coffee's gettin’ cold,” he said softly. “How about pourin’ us
both
a cup? It looks like we've got a long night ahead of us."

It was hard for Max to believe such lush forests could exist so close to the concrete and glass of Washington, D.C. He opened the car windows to the smell of trees and earth recently rained upon as he drove up the narrow mountain road. He hadn't felt this free-or at home-since he'd arrived in D.C. six years ago, and he wondered if he'd made a mistake leaving the hills of north Florida for the ills of the nation's capitol.

Of course, he'd had to get away from the constant reminders of Alice and Lisa, and Ed's offer of a job at the FBI had seemed perfect. Tired of drive-by shootings, dopers, road rage, and just plain stupidity, Max had felt certain he could accomplish more with the Feds than with the Leon County Sheriff's Office. After two years, he knew he'd been wrong. There was nothing satisfying about filing mounds of paperwork, kow-towing to superiors, or having the enforcement of laws take a back seat to bureaucratic bickering. His old buddy, Ed, whom he'd met at Florida State University, assured him that things would get better when a new President took office, but the new Administration was even worse about mixing politics with law enforcement than the one before. When he heard about the job at D.C.P.D., Max jumped at the chance. He'd never regretted it.

A large billboard with a big silver bass painted on it peeked out from between the tall, thick-trunked pines, just as Cassie had described. “Curley's Fish Camp, five miles on right. Bait, tackle, groceries. Boats and cabins for rent.” Max grinned as he drove close enough to read the slogan at the bottom of the sign: “Fishing is not a matter of life and death. It's much more important than that.”
God, that's what I've been missing. What was it my Dad used to say? “A bad day of fishin's better than a good day at work."
He shook his head. Maybe it was time to start enjoying life again.

Another sign, nearly identical to the first, announced the entrance to Curley's, and as Max turned onto the narrow dirt road, he wondered whether he should have brought Cassie with him. She knew Jonathon and would recognize him immediately. Jonathon would trust her. But no. The risk was too great. The less we're seen together, the better for both of us-and for the investigation.

A small group of men huddled beside the boat ramp next to the gray concrete block marina as Max pulled up to the gas pumps and climbed out. The smell of fish mixed with the odor of live bait from somewhere behind the building. It reminded him of Ed and Bernice's Fish Camp on Lake Talquin, just outside of Tallahassee, and despite his urgent errand, some of the tension left his shoulders.

A shirtless boy of about thirteen, wearing blue shorts and stained top-siders, walked over. “Hi, Mister. Welcome to Curley's. I'm Curley's son. Ya want some gas?"

Max nodded. “You bet. Fill ‘er up with regular.” It had been a long time since he'd seen an honest-to-goodness gas pump attendant.

"This yer first time here? Don't ‘call seein’ you before.” The boy asked, watching the gas meter turn like a slow slot machine.

"Yeah, sure is. A guy I used t’ know told me there ain't no better place for bass or bream anywhere.” He replied, leaning against the hood of the blue Chevy pickup he'd borrowed from Ricky Sims. “Finally got some time off to give it a try."

"Yeah? Who was it told ya ‘bout us? Maybe I know ‘im,” the boy responded, hanging the nozzle carefully back onto the pump and closing the gas cap. “That'll be fifteen dollars-
American.
"

Max looked at him dumbly. “American?"

Curley's son grinned broadly, showing a chipped front tooth. “Yeah. Don't take plastic,” he said, counting the money Max put into his hand. “You never told me who yer friend is."

"His name's Sinclair. Jonny Sinclair. Don't know how often he comes here anymore, though. Ain't seen ‘im in awhile, an’ he's gettin’ on up in years."

"Oh, yeah. I know ‘im. He still comes here a lot. Too bad you didn't get here sooner. He left out early this mornin'."

Max covered his disappointment at the unwelcome news. “That's too bad. He's a pretty good fisherman, an’ I sure could've used some advice. Like I said earlier, I don't have much time for fishin’ anymore."

"Yeah. But my Daddy can give you all the advice you need. He's in the marina."

As he followed the boy inside, Max cast about for some way to get more information. Maybe Jonathon had told someone which way he was heading. Maybe someone knew
something
.

Forty dollars worth of bait, snacks, and boat rental charges later, all Max had learned was that Jonathon always rented cabin number twelve and that Curley was a bald, surly and suspicious person who asked all kinds of questions. Where was Max from? What kind of a job did he have that didn't even leave him “time to
fish,
fer cryin’ out loud,” and how he happened to know a “plain ol’ handyman like Jonathon Sinclair?” Despite his carefully researched and planned answers, Max had a strong feeling they didn't satisfy Curley's curiosity.

Curley's boy, whose name, or rather nickname, turned out to be Squirrel, helped him get his gear and supplies into the twelve-foot aluminum boat, then stood back with his wiry arms crossed, watching his new customer struggle to start the old Mercury outboard. “Check the choke,” he suggested as the motor sputtered and died for the third time.

Chagrined, Max obeyed, and the motor revved up on the first pull. As he eased the boat away from the aging wooden dock, he was grateful to escape the boy's laughter.

Cassie closed the lid on the steamer trunk and stood up, surveying the attic. So far, she'd found none of the answers she sought amid the memories that hovered as thick as the dust she'd stirred up. Mother's wedding dress. Daddy's old Little League uniform. Baby clothes, childhood drawings. Grandma Hart's scrapbooks.
How Grandma loved to show off those articles about Daddy-"Hart leads team to Brain Bowl win"; “Madison Hart awarded Rhodes Scholarship"
-
and the photos of him growing up.

Sighing, she crossed the room. One more cardboard box. That stack of magazines in the corner. The bookshelf and its neglected tomes. As she bent over the box and opened the top flaps, a gray moth flew out, its rough wings scraping her cheek as it fled. Moth heaven, she thought, wrinkling her nose at the sight of the old woolen sweaters. They were so full of holes even the Salvation Army wouldn't want them. Cassie didn't bother to close the lid. She was tired and dusty and sweaty and ready to be done with this.

She contemplated the stack of magazines as she made her way to it. Mother was the world's worst about hanging onto old magazines. “For the recipes,” she always said, but, somehow, she never quite got around to trying any of them. Cassie leafed through them.
Woman's Day. Ladies Home Journal. Redbook.
Halfway down, she saw an issue of
Time
and pulled it from the pile. A photo of a thin-faced man with dark, close-set eyes and a mane of white hair that reached nearly to his shoulders graced the cover. Cassie sucked in her breath as she read the headline: “J. Harold Otis-Man with a Mission.”
Mr. Firethorne himself
. She flipped to the article, but it had been torn out.

Puzzled, she set the magazine on the floor beside her and leafed through the rest of the pile, but the others were just more of Mother's someday reading. She made a mental note to have Jonathon include the magazines in his first load of trash. Except for the
Time
magazine, they represented little more than a fire hazard.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs drew her attention to the doorway just as May Lee appeared. Cassie felt like she'd been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She had told May Lee she was up here separating the keepers from the throw-aways. By now, there should be some sense of order. There wasn't.

May Lee looked around and raised her eyebrows. “Making any progress?"

"A little,” Cassie replied, shrugging. “I guess the memories are getting in my way."

"Yes. Well. Are you still planning to go to the cemetery?"

Cassie looked at her watch. She'd been at this for nearly four hours. “Yeah. I've already put it off too long."

May Lee surveyed the attic again. “Would you like some lunch before you go?"

"That would be great. I'll be down in a few minutes."

"Do you need any help sorting through these-things?"

"No. I can handle it. But thanks, anyway."

May Lee took one more look around and retreated to the stairwell.

Cassie waited until the maid's footsteps faded away before turning to the bookshelves. Her old library of Golden Books glimmered in the sunlight that filtered through the window, and Cassie pulled one from the shelf.
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
. She smiled, remembering the sound of her mother's voice reading to her, imitating the voices of the Dwarfs perfectly. While other families gathered around their televisions, her family had read. Books. Magazines. Anything containing the written word. She put the book back and looked at the titles of the books on the shelf above it.
The Old Man and the Sea. The Great Gatsby.
Ayn Rand's
The Fountainhead
. Boy, that one had caused a stir when Daddy discovered I was reading it.
The Fearful Master
and
The Creature from Jekyll Island
by someone named G. Edward Griffin. Sounded more like something by Stephen King.

Barry Goldwater's
Conscience of a Conservative
caught her eye. That one had practically been her father's Bible. She took it down and leafed through it. If any of these books held any secrets, it would be this one. But nothing fell from the worn pages. Closing it, she hugged it against herself, a long forgotten memory tugging at the edges of her mind. Something about this book. A conversation. No. An argument. She shook her head. Maybe it would come to her later. Replacing the book, she took a step back to get a better look at the volumes on the top shelf.

A thin black binder was wedged next to the collection of out-dated World Book Encyclopedias. Cassie didn't remember having seen it before. Taking it down, she caught her breath. Scrawled across the cover was a single word-"Penseur.”
Jackpot
. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she laid the binder across her lap and opened it, spellbound by the May, 1972 issue.

Student Leaders Share Views with Progressives

Members of Penseur conferred with leaders of the Progressive Movement during the weekend of May first at the ten thousand acre estate known as Firethorne Plantation, owned by millionaire industrialist J. Harold Otis, in the wilds of rural north Florida. Among the topics discussed were how the lessons of Vietnam can be harnessed to prevent future wars; ways in which the anti-war and civil rights movements can help change existing American attitudes toward personal freedom and collective responsibility; how the United Nations might become a more effective tool for peace; and methods by which nations and resources could be realigned to remove the root causes of war.

According to Herbert Goldmayer, spokesman for Penseur, leaders of the Progressive Movement expressed great interest in the students’ thoughts, calling them “articulate, well-conceived, and workable.” They evinced particular enthusiasm for the students’ ideas for creating a new world order through international regulation of populations and resources with the United Nations as the controlling body. Goldmayer stated that those present at the meeting agreed that the United States has perpetuated the conditions which cause war and that future wars can only be prevented by a sea-change in American attitudes and policies.

"It will take a long time to bring about the changes we seek, and the Bill of Rights poses a major obstacle,” Goldmayer quoted their host as saying, “But if we're patient and the right people control not only government, but the courts, education, and mass media, it can be accomplished. War is the greatest enemy of mankind, and no nation has the right to cling to its way of life at the expense of other nations."