The Chairman finished his special morning broadcast and went upstairs. The CMA owned and occupied the entire downtown building. The Tower of Faith; his name, his vision, the Lord’s guiding hand. From here the final campaign against evil would be waged and the world prepared for the Lord’s Kingdom.
For months he’d cried into the TV cameras, opened his heart and soul to millions of viewers. “The Lord has decreed the building because if the world is under Satan’s siege, there must be a Holy Fortress where the righteous may prepare for the battle ahead. A fortress, brothers and sisters, where the Lord’s soldiers shall be armed with the weapons of righteousness, and begin their march to victory over Satan and all his evil! The ‘Tower of Faith,’ the Lord has whispered the name unto me, to be built here in Houston, where His good work is already being done. He needs it. America needs it, and so too, the very world!”
The CMA’s phone lines had lit up instantly. The donations poured in. And so it had been built.
At seventy stories, the Tower was Houston’s tallest building, an inspiration born not of vanity but necessity. Doing the Lord’s work required sufficient space and equipment. First there was the TV network, then the radio station, the publishing operation that disseminated the CMA’s literature across the globe, the library and archives, facilities for the missionary programs, and the financial division that managed the CMA’s enormous investment capital. There were staff offices and residential quarters. The list went on and on.
Rarely, however, was it necessary to mention the Tower’s penthouse, although everyone knew its occupant: the Captain responsible for navigating this Holy Ship through the treacherous waters of a world not yet ready for the Lord’s return. Praise the Lord, and His servant, Seth Harrington.
His secretary, Rose, caught him as he emerged from the elevator. “The President just called to express his approval of this morning’s program. He seemed genuinely inspired.”
“Praise the Lord.” This morning’s program addressing the Lamp nomination had drained him. It had been critical to garner support, without sounding too political in the process. He’d succeeded with this delicate task but another remained — a certain police investigation now into its fifth bumbling day.
“Mr. Leopold is waiting,” Rose explained as he started for his office. She was a good secretary who didn’t ask too many questions or express an unwholesome interest in matters that didn’t concern her. Like why Leopold, an untitled project coordinator, was granted the privilege of waiting in his private office when the CMA’s Vice Chairman, Earl Resenstadt, was not.
As he entered, Leopold’s heavy-lidded eye followed him over to the desk, the sightless glass one unmoving. It was a hideous face the Irish brute had left him with: an eye that didn’t see; a nose that drained yet barely absorbed a thimbleful of air; a mouthful of dentures that infected his gums; and a rubber leg that dipped his shoulder with each step. Yet Leopold was infinitely resourceful, a precious CMA asset. Despite his grotesque appearance, a Brooks Brothers’ suit and handsome leather briefcase were the only tools needed to impersonate affluent businessmen or a Wall Street lawyer on his recent Minnesota assignment. Whatever the task, he handled it competently and without unnecessary questions.
“This morning’s program was wonderful, sir,” Leopold said now. “I also heard Rose say the President called. I’m sure your eloquent words added comfort to his decision yesterday.”
“I hope I didn’t sound too political in my endorsement of Lamp. Our mission is Godly, not worldly.”
“It rang with the Lord’s inspiration, sir, nothing else.”
Harrington’s gaze drifted to the closed door, his heart quickening with his true feelings: anger and frustration, which were taking a greater toll on his aging body. Since his sixty-fourth birthday, he’d begun thinking more about his grueling pace. Hadn’t a massive coronary taken his father’s life at the same age?
“Arch, the President’s announcement yesterday should’ve been momentously joyous. It should’ve left us with the sweet taste of victory, yet it’s the bitterness of Satan’s apple that sours my tongue now, and there it’ll remain until this new serpent is slain and its vile carcass swept from our path. Just when we have our Court in place to rewrite the nation’s laws as the Lord has instructed, a dark cloud has arisen that may bring the same rain of destruction that befell Moses... I won’t allow it!” His eyes flamed with indignation. “The CMA will not disappoint the Lord or bring Him the disgrace of Moses. And I will not swim in the seas of hell with a pack of miserable Jews!”
“Praise the Lord!” Leopold refrained.
“Praise Him, indeed.” He struggled to calm down. However great his anger, a cool head was needed to safely navigate them out of this dark storm. “Arch, our mission’s survival depends upon a well-conceived and flawlessly executed plan. Everyone must be committed and possess a clear understanding of the consequences if we fail.”
“They understand, sir.” Leopold had met with them in Georgetown last night: Mann, Falkingham, Chapman, Streeter and their new teammate, Lamp. They’d known he carried the Chairman’s authority and the reason he’d remained in Houston. Because of his close ties with Longbridge, Harrington was careful to distance himself from the White House when major appointments were made.
“So tell me about last night’s meeting,” Harrington said.
He began with the positive of a negative report. “Lieber Allen has withdrawn from the Naples probate case. Lamp confirmed with the Crenshaw family what I explained earlier: that will contests were the Jew’s specialty and that with his death, the firm has no one experienced in Florida probate law. Consequently, they’ve retained a Naples firm to continue the suit.”
“That’s heartening, at least,” Harrington sighed. “Now what about Corelli and this new nemesis, Waddill? Does Lamp have any idea what they know about Crenshaw?”
“I’m afraid so.” He frowned with his first negative news. “After Waddill’s disappearance in Boston yesterday, Lamp learned from firm sources that he’d been asking about the Crenshaw records. Lamp assumes Corelli tipped him off. He’d just started working for the Jew and wouldn’t have known about the case otherwise. Based on this, we must assume the two of them are sniffing after Crenshaw. What they know is anyone’s guess.”
“Do we also assume Waddill’s rejoined Corelli?”
He nodded. “No other scenario is indicated. We know that after escaping the Feds at Logan, he caught a southbound bus. He was identified by another passenger between New York and Baltimore. Later reports place him as far south as Columbia. Assuming he’s on the scent of Crenshaw, his logical destination would be one of three places — Pine County, Tennessee; Snow Peak, Minnesota; or Naples, Florida.”
Harrington grimaced. “Minnesota is a thousand miles north of Columbia.”
“And Tennessee is a healthy distance west,” Leopold added. “I don’t believe I mentioned that Waddill’s ticket covered the bus’s last stop in Atlanta. Only he wasn’t aboard when it arrived.”
Harrington smiled, “You’re getting him ever closer to Naples with these suppositions, Arch. If that’s his destination, is Corelli already there?” He’d been sickened to learn the catastrophic news that Corelli, just minutes from capture, had somehow slipped away. “Twenty-four hours ago she was trapped in Manhattan, and through Chapman and Streeter’s incompetence she’s vanished like a puff of Italian smoke.”
Leopold scowled over a disaster that had cost them a tremendous advantage. Once confined to Manhattan, the operation had suddenly expanded to the entire East Coast. Further, Corelli was now joined by someone with potential resources, yet to be identified.
He reported his next piece of bad news, one that at least could be fixed. “Last night, as I waited at the Lakeland’s window for the others to arrive, I detected a Fed car down the street. I can spot them a mile away. Before finding the Lord, I was a popular subject of their surveillance.”
“Arch, the Lord has forgiven your past mistakes. Hold your head high for the courage shown in finding Him.”
“Praise the Lord, sir.”
“Praise Him indeed, for providing the finest instrument I possess to do His work. Now tell me about this car.”
“It was there on an obvious stakeout,” he explained. “I waited until after the meeting to have Frankie and George tail him to his Alexandria home. They got the number of his Bureau plates and his name and address off the mailbox. I only needed the name to remember the pain of the savage beating that left me this way. Every time I look in the mirror, I remember him, just as I do the agent who sent me to prison where this terrible thing happened.”
A deep compassion moved Harrington as his valued lieutenant bordered on tears. Who wouldn’t cry to own such a grotesque face? “Swanson. The same knuckle-head Chapman was forced to muzzle after the Rogers investigation. Then you’re saying our stubborn friend didn’t get the message?”
“It seems that way, sir. But I doubt he’s learned much.”
“Don’t fool yourself, Arch. We’ve had many meetings in Georgetown. And it didn’t take much for him to place you at Lake Witteoka, the weekend the Antichrist Rogers drowned.”
“But he couldn’t sway anyone else with his suspicions.”
“That we know of. There may be others we simply haven’t discovered. But if they exist, we’ll find them. Swanson’s left us no choice.”
Leopold studied him gravely. “You’re thinking what I am?”
“If that Swanson may try to contact Corelli and Waddill, I am indeed.”
“We’re assuming he’s smart enough to connect Rogers with the Jew lawyer.”
“Smart?” Harrington scoffed. “I’d say making that connection is pretty stupid, just as it was to disregard Chapman’s warning two years ago. How much clearer could it have been? Accept Rogers’s death as accidental or forfeit your career.” He sighed. “Your stubborn friend doesn’t listen very well, does he?”
“He never did, sir.”
“Then a second warning would be a waste of time. And besides, it’s too late for that now.”
“What about Corelli and Waddill?” Leopold asked.
“Are they any less of a threat than Swanson?” He paused. “I wish there was another way, Arch. I don’t relish making sacrificial lambs of people. It burdens my conscience deeply. But the Lord’s mission must be fulfilled at any cost.”
“Should I consult with Chapman and Streeter?”
“They need to be involved. This is a police operation, after all. Just don’t let them get in your way. And handle Swanson as you wish. Unless there’s a problem, I’d rather not hear anymore about him.”
The mammoth tractor-trailer rumbled down I-85’s Naples exit, pulling over for the young man to hop out. “Hey, if it’s a boy, name him after me!” the driver called down to his companion of these last two hundred miles.
“You got it!” The man slung his rumpled jacket over his shoulder. Not even noon and already it was eighty degrees. “Say Jess, once the furniture’s dropped off in Miami, grab a six pack and hit the beach. And drink that first one for me.”
Jess laughed. “I thought I was supposed to light a cigar.”
Waving as the monster truck clanked back up the ramp, the man squinted against the bright sun and started off.
Naples’s granite and glass towers shimmered in the horizon. Soon the Gulf emerged like a glittering emerald carpet. Naples was a retirement haven for the rich: capitalists, doctors, lawyers, corrupt county sheriffs. The traffic breezed past, oblivious to his hitching thumb. Turning finally, he lengthened his strides along the steamy pavement. A gray patrol car glided by as he approached downtown. Stopping at a service station, he bought a Coke then slipped into the phone booth to place his call. The line clicked but stayed silent. “Mrs. Butts?” he asked.
“Where are you?” she demanded angrily.
“Naples, of course.”
“Where have you been?”
He sighed. “It’s a long story.”
“It’s been a longer wait.”
“I tried calling.”
“What do you mean ‘tried?’ “
“Are you gonna give me directions or not?” he asked impatiently.
“I’m not sure.”
He wiped his grimy brow as a second patrol car passed. Naples was either hosting a police convention or this was his welcoming committee. “Listen, I’ll explain it all when I get there.”
She gave him directions: four more steamy blocks west, two south. “Room 434.” The line clicked sharply.
He reached the white granite Holiday Inn minutes later and, passing the palm tree-shaded courtyard, quickly climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. Room 434 was halfway down the hall. “Alice!” He knocked, waited patiently then knocked again. “It’s Ralph, open up!” But it was apparent she had no such intention. “Alice, I’m not late on purpose!” His anger rose as the stubborn silence deepened. “Alice, open the goddamned door!” His fist now rattled the hinges.
Finally it opened and bobbed, blond Mayson appeared. “I’m sorry it took so long. I was memorizing the Naples TV channels. I didn’t realize there were so many.”
Brushing past, he tossed his dirty jacket over a chair then turned back. “Where are your glasses? You need to keep them on.”
“Sitting in the room by myself?”
“Can’t you do one thing I ask without griping?”
Her eyes burned angrily. “Ten seconds in the room and already you’re giving orders! Don’t think you can sashay in here a day late and start bossing me around.”
His gaze fell to the crystal pool below, where children splashed and squealed with delight. Coated in grime, his joints aching from bumpy truck rides, he’d sell his soul for a quick plunge into the cool water. “I’m gonna take a shower.”
“First tell me why you changed your mind and decided to come.”
Exasperated, he glared at her. He was hot, tired and grungy, but before granted the simple privilege of a shower, he must defend himself against another paranoid inquisition. Hell no, he didn’t!
Shutting himself in the bathroom, he splashed his face with cold water. Her toilet items were neatly arranged on the counter. So she’d ventured out after all. He’d underestimated her. Reaching for a towel, he spotted a bottle in the trash and returned it to the counter. Another discovery waited in the bathtub — a six pack of his beloved Molson in a cooler of water that last night had been ice. Smiling, he lifted it out.
The shower revived him. Emerging in fresh jeans and a navy polo, he found her at the window. She turned, a deep vulnerability widening her eyes. “Please tell me why you changed your mind and came?”
“I didn’t change my mind about anything.” He toweled his hair. “Except my travel plans, of course, over which I had no control. Thanks for the beer. I’m sorry I wasn’t here to drink it.” He now told her about his desperate escape from Logan and the near disaster in Columbia. “Didn’t you watch TV yesterday?”
“Not enough, obviously, to pick up The Great Escape.”
He nodded at Robes of Vengeance on the table. “How is it?”
“I wouldn’t have survived the last twenty-four hours without it. It was great, thank you.”
“I’ve been worried about you those same twenty-four hours, Mayson, you know that.”
Yes she knew. But she’d also been terribly frightened, one eye on the book, the other on the door. She hated doors, and after all this time avoiding them, there was yet another. It wasn’t fair.
“There I was,” he sighed. “Stranded in Columbia, South Carolina at midnight, my bus leaving one way, patrol cars shrieking by the other way.”
“What did you do?” she asked.
“I took a cab out to the I-95 truck stop then hit the first driver coming out with a song and dance about my wife in Naples ready to spit one out. Only I couldn’t be there because my clunker had clunked out - a predicament I blamed on my boss, who’d sent me on an ill-fated sales trip. Anyway, the bullshit was good enough to get me on Bert Thompson’s Macon hardware delivery, then Jess Harley’s Miami furniture run. Jess wants us to name the baby after him, if it’s a boy. I said we would.”
She held him with a begrudging admiration. “I guess I owe you an apology. You did well to get here at all.”
They watched a mother scoop her irate toddler from the pool below. Like a hooked fish, the little boy squirmed furiously. Finally Tyler’s eyes returned to her and gratefully relaxed. “So how about you? Were there any hitches at the airport?”
“A real heart-stopper.” She described the police escort and Crawford’s fixation over her resemblance to the Flatbush mechanic’s daughter.
“Lauren, I guess, talked you out of the situation?”
“She’s clever with bullshit, and quite proud of it.”
“So that was the big hitch?”
“Hardly.” She now explained her identification by the state process server and the potential disaster it had set in motion. “Lauren’s BS was superb but the cops weren’t about to sink their shoes in it. When I refused to turn over my purse, two Feds ripped it away and were about to peek, when Chief Fed arrived. Grabbing it, he started firing questions as he flipped through my cards. I knew it was over then.”
He gawked at her. “You’re telling me this Fed flipped through all those cards and let you go?”
She nodded. “He returned my purse and told the others that I was Deborah Burns of Atlanta, just as I claimed. He even sent his flustered subordinate off to hold my flight.”
Leaving him to wrestle with this astonishing development, she retrieved the Agent’s card. Studying it carefully, he jumped up to grab the phone. “What are you doing?” She watched him dial.
“Following Agent Harvey’s instructions. By the way, Lamp’s been nominated to fill the vacancy on the Supreme Court.”
“What!” she gasped. “Tyler, are you serious?”
“As a heart attack...” A man came on the line now, identifying himself as Harvey. “The lady at La Guardia,” Tyler began delicately. “Do you remember her?”
The silence deepened. Then, “The one from Atlanta, sure. I gave her a tip. What was it now?”
He cupped the phone. “Harvey gave you a tip.”
“An Atlanta seafood restaurant his friend owns,” she quickly replied.
Tyler relayed the answer then waited through another long silence. Finally, Harvey said, “Let me call you back. What’s your number?”
“No way,” Tyler replied. “I’ll call you.”
“Fine kid, we’ll do it your way.” He relayed the new number. “Give me fifteen minutes.”
The phone was ringing as Harvey reached the booth across the street. Breathless, he grabbed it. “Perfect timing,” he announced. Beyond the glass the Hotel Kensington’s guests strolled the promenade, the expensive shops bustling as usual. “This is Waddill, right? And since you passed my pop quiz, I assume Corelli’s with you.”
“And I assume by your rescue, you want to make it a threesome?”
“A foursome if it’s all the same to you, kid. It’s easier to get a tee-off time that way.”
“Who’s the fourth?”
“The first actually. Gus Swanson, an agent like me. Say, where are you two anyway — Atlanta?”
“Where are you?” Tyler retorted.
“The Hotel Kensington. It’s across the street from the Bureau’s office. Listen kid, let’s cut the crap, okay? If I couldn’t be trusted, Corelli would be in the slammer now. So how about it – you tell me where you are and maybe I’ll consider helping you two again.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Good question. I’ll answer it, then you tell me where you are.” He turned as the promenade swelled with a noisy convention crowd that had just adjourned in a nearby ballroom. “You remember Chief Justice Rogers’s death two years ago? Gus Swanson was on the Bureau team sent to Vermont to investigate it. He claims the team’s accidental drowning report was a sham and that Rogers was murdered.”
“Didn’t he take the matter to his superiors?” Tyler asked.
“Sure kid, all the way to the top. Only Director Chapman wasn’t interested. He warned Gus that if he pursued this nonsense about Rogers being murdered, he’d fire him. Chapman’s done everything in his power to silence suspicion. And not just him; his buddy, Attorney General Streeter, is up to his ears in this mess, too. And as Longbridge appointments, don’t we assume the White House is involved as well? Kid, we may have stumbled upon the conspiracy of the century here.”
“What proof does Swanson have that Rogers was murdered?”
Harvey explained the basis for Gus’s theory that Leopold had murdered Rogers. “If you saw this big, ugly monster, you’d real- ize there’s no way to confuse him with anyone else on the planet. And although no one saw him the night Rogers drowned, you can bet your ass he was on that boat the old man heard leaving the cove. No question: Leopold knocked Rogers off. There’s also no question about who gave the order - the man he works for and who benefited most from Rogers’s death. Seth Harrington, I’m talking about.
“We’ve been tracking Leopold ever since. He bounces between New York and D.C. but obviously goes a lot of other places, too. Where and why, we have no resources to determine. Gus has also documented numerous Georgetown meetings, hosted by Harrington. The guest list typically includes Falkingham, Mann, Chapman, Streeter and starting this week, your boss, Lamp. He has pictures, dates, times, participants — everything except what the fly on the wall knows which, of course, makes the other stuff worthless.
“To be honest,” he sighed, “we’d run out of leads, and without resources to penetrate the conspiracy things looked pretty hopeless. Mendelsohn’s murder Sunday night changed that.” He paused now to catch the pretty, auburn-haired manager of Mimi’s Fashions watching him across the promenade. “Listen kid, I have to move this along. Anyway, that same Sunday afternoon, Gus got a tip that Leopold and two flunkies were en route to La Guardia. I rushed out there to establish a tail, which took me to the Essex. Leopold and one bozo went inside, while the driver waited in the garage. They returned forty-five minutes later and squealed away. The time fits perfectly with Mendelsohn’s murder.”
Tyler glanced at Mayson. “Why didn’t you report it?”
“First, I had no proof Leopold went to Mendelsohn’s apartment. Second there’s nothing connecting him to the lawyer, anyway. Third, this obnoxious detective, Duke, had Corelli pegged and nothing I said was going to change his mind. Fourth, all it would’ve done is expose our investigation. Not that we had much, but things looked a lot more promising after Sunday night. And fifth, for what it’s worth, we could’ve kissed both our careers and asses good-bye. Still, we wouldn’t have let Corelli join her brother in Attica. You know about him?”
“Lucky? Yeah,” Tyler replied.
“The Lips,” he laughed. “Anyway, we know Leopold killed Mendelsohn. But what’s his connection to Rogers? We assumed the answer lay inside your law firm and Lamp’s nomination seems to confirm it. Like the first two, it must’ve been in the cards all along. Only Mendelsohn got in the way, stumbling upon something big enough to get himself killed. Any idea what it was?”
Mayson’s eyes held Tyler impatiently as she waited for this bounty of information he was receiving. But did she really want it? If Harvey was right, the odds against them couldn’t be more overwhelming. “We have a theory,” he revealed. “Who knows if it’ll lead to anything.”
Mimi’s manager still watched Harvey through the glass. They’d been on the line a half-hour now, in which he’d shared what sparse fruit their investigation had yielded. It was time to get something in return. “Listen, you kids are obviously smart but you’re in way over your heads. We either join forces or we’re all going down. So how about it?”
“We’re at a Holiday Inn in Naples, Florida,” Tyler now revealed, providing their room and phone number. “We’re registered as Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Butts.”
“Clever. Who’d purposely choose a name like that, right?”
“Lauren Belli deserves all the credit.”
“The long-legged blond prosecutor at the airport?”
“That’s the impression she usually leaves, yeah.”
“I won’t ask why she got herself mixed up in this mess.”
“Thanks.” He revealed their suspicions about Crenshaw and the need to examine the court records.
The news was a shot in the arm for Harvey. “Sounds like you’re on the right track. Lamp’s strange behavior, the missing files and his court nomination must be more than coincidence. Do you need help getting the records?”
“I can’t think of a way that wouldn’t risk exposure.”
“My guess is, kid, they already know you’re there.”
He thought again of the patrol cars spotted on the way into town. Weren’t they what he’d feared — a welcoming committee?
“I gotta run,” Harvey said now. “Some store manager’s giving me the hairy eyeball. Oh, and don’t use that number I gave Corelli unless it’s an emergency. Just wait for my call.”
“When will that be?”
“After I’ve talked to Gus. Meanwhile be thinking of how we can help with the Crenshaw angle.”
As he hung up, Mayson’s eyes caught Tyler’s anxiously. “It’s really bad, isn’t it?”
He nodded grimly. Harvey had confirmed their worst suspicions, which he now detailed, starting with the circumstances surrounding Chief Justice Rogers’s death, and ending with Lamp’s Court nomination.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she absorbed his account, her intensity quickly replaced by shock. “There’s no way out is there, Tyler?”
“Of course there is,” he insisted with a confidence hardly felt. “If the enemy’s been identified, so have our allies - ones with resources we didn’t have before.”
“Wonderful,” she sighed. “You, me, Harvey and Swanson against the entire world.” Still, it could be worse. She could be alone, but she wasn’t. He was with her. Why exactly seemed less important with each passing hour. He’d turned her world upside down, the same as this terrifying web of conspiracy. He and these circumstances were forcing her to redefine that world. Life had taught her not to trust, yet each minute with him strengthened her belief that he could be trusted. For years, she’d invested in an emotionless, uninhabited future that suddenly could no longer be envisioned. All that remained was a new, undefined hope and a yearning for something unidentifiable.
Because of him, she’d lost control of her life, even her body’s motion she realized as her hand crept boldly over his. This gesture, like her gentle smile, was offered to relieve the pain she saw in his eyes. “It’s not enough that you rescue me from a murder charge. Now you have to save America from Seth Harrington, three corrupt Supreme Court Justices, the Attorney General, the FBI Director, and some dangerous monster named Leopold.”
He studied the strange sight of their hands joined on the bed. “Don’t forget the President.”
“Tyler, you should let your family know you’re safe, at least for the moment.”
“I sent them a letter explaining my plans.”
“A call would still be nice. You’re so pale. You need to eat. And take a nice, long nap.”
He sighed. “Please don’t start acting like my mother.”
“Did you only send one letter? Or is there some Tidewater debutante you correspond with? I assume you’re obliged to marry some eighth cousin, according to the customs of your plantation society.”
He glared at her. “You’ve been watching too many movies.”
“Of all the women you date, you mean there isn’t one you’re serious about?”
“No, sorry.”
“But there was?” His eyes dimmed as he turned to the window. “Then you won’t tell me?”
“That’s right.”
Her natural impulse was to pout, but his love life was none of her business. She must remember that and never grow accustomed to his presence. When the danger was gone, so would he — if they survived it.
Slipping into the bathroom, she quickly returned with a perfume bottle. “What’s this?”
“L’Air Du Temps.”
“I know that, Tyler.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“Because I threw it away. Why did you put it back on the counter? I thought you didn’t like it.”
“I never said that. And I don’t have the right to tell you what perfume to wear.” Grabbing another beer, he returned to the window. How long until the cops began searching the hotels along the coast?
“Tyler, you want me to wear the L’Air Du Temps,” she said. “Why?”
He watched the sun sink slowly over the Gulf. It wasn’t as spectacular as he’d imagined. “Wear whatever perfume you want. We have more important things to think about.”
He dropped onto the bed. His sour disposition was nothing more than exhaustion. “You need a nap.”
“And how would you know?”
“Because you’re acting like an insolent child.”
He gulped his beer. “I don’t need a nap.”
Seconds later, she covered him with a blanket and, being careful not to wake him, slipped his shoes off.
Dinner waited on the bed-stand when he woke: a toasted BLT and an ice cold Molson. She stood at the window, the Gulf Coast glittering against the night sky. “I guess I really was tired,” he sighed. Gratefully he bit into the BLT. “I love these.”
“You ordered them whenever we ate in Morris’s office.”
“Aren’t you eating?” he asked.
“I had a sandwich earlier. There’s a dark, quiet pub across the courtyard. It’s safe, don’t worry.”
“What else have you been doing?”
“Thinking about our predicament mostly,” she replied.
“And?” he sipped his beer.
“I didn’t come up with a brilliant plan, if that’s what you mean.”
“Maybe it’ll come to you while we wait for the courthouse to open. Meanwhile, cops are pouring into the city. By Monday morning they’ll have Naples sealed off.”
“Getting those records will be difficult, if not impossible.” She sat on the bed beside him. “And if we do get them, what then? I’ll go to the courthouse,” she said. “I’m disguised, at least.”
“We’ll leave the moment we get the records,” he added. “That’ll mean a car. Any ideas on how Harvey can help?”
“New IDs would be nice, in case we get stopped. Assuming he can swing it, where do we go?”
“Tennessee.”
“Why not Minnesota?” she asked.
“Tennessee’s closer.”
“Gee, that’s brilliant.” She returned to the bathroom for her purse and got another Molson for him.
“You’re learning,” he smiled.
“What, that gavonnes like beer? I’ve known it for years.” Sitting back down on the bed, she dug out her Jams. It was the start of a feeding frenzy that would last until the box was empty.
He watched her eyes gleam suddenly. “What?”
“The coincidence of five cases, each with enormous potential for creating new law, coming up in the same spring term. What a rare opportunity for the court to rewrite the Constitution.” She shook her head. “I mean it’s all there, isn’t it? The dream agenda for a fanatic like Harrington, obsessed with transforming America into a theological state, based on his own moral precepts.”
“Then you believe that Longbridge is Harrington’s Puppet President?”
“Don’t you?” she asked.
“I’d rather not. If Longbridge is part of this, there’s no one left to save us. Even armed with the truth, our situation would be hopeless. If everybody in power is corrupt, the truth becomes meaningless.”
She replied, “The truth is nothing more than what the game’s players say it is. They make it up as they go along. ‘Reconstructing facts,’ I call it.”
“I call it lying,” he said.
“Then you’re a dope.”
“I’d rather be a dope than a liar.”
He was neither, but what he was exactly, she lacked the courage to discover. “What I don’t understand is why Harrington would choose Lamp, Mann, and Falkingham to help create his religious state. How could he insure their vote on critical issues? Lamp, at least, has no track record of extremist right wing views or sympathy for religious causes.”
“Neither do Mann or Falkingham.”
“Maybe they approached him,” she mused. “Judicial obedience in exchange for the power he could deliver.”
“That sounds like Falkingham — an opportunist if ever there was one. But let’s assume the deal was struck, and with Rogers’s death, then the two retirements, the path was cleared. If Lamp’s confirmed, Harrington will have placed his trio on the bench in time for this auspicious spring term.”
“So what went wrong?” she wondered. “What did Morris find out, and why did he have to be killed?”
“Let’s hope Crenshaw tells us.”
“Tyler, are we going to die?”
Her fawnish eyes, once empty, now glowed warmly with a passion to live. “Everyone dies, Mayson. Our predicament doesn’t change that. We just need to focus on smaller units of time: minutes instead of years. And live each one with the hope of getting to the next.”
“Wow! I think you’ve just conceived a new philosophy for people in our shoes.” Yawning, her enthusiasm waned as she glanced at the clock. “I wonder when Harvey will call?”
He shrugged, “Unless there’ve been developments, there’s no urgency.”
Stretching across the bed, her sudden movement sweetly stirred the air with L’Air Du Temps. In seconds she was asleep. Slipping off her shoes, he gently covered her with the same blanket she’d used to cover him. By midnight, it covered them both.
The ringing phone shattered the darkness. Tyler grabbed it.
“We’ve got big trouble.” Harvey’s agitation edged the line. “Our cover was blown last night. Gus has taken steps to preserve the evidence: volumes that don’t say much now, but might if they’re connected with Crenshaw. I say if because it’s doubtful we’ll ever dig up another scrap. Those bastards must be scrambling like rats for cover.”
Tyler squinted at the clock as Mayson stirred beside him. “What the hell happened?”
“There was another Georgetown meeting. Gus was on the scene, as usual. Apparently Leopold spotted him and put on a tail, which means that Chapman, who was there, now knows about the investigation. Who knows when and how they’ll strike? Gus sent his family to the country but he should’ve gone, too - only not ‘to’ the country but out of it. But he doesn’t listen; he never has, the stubborn bastard.”
Swanson was doomed unless he ran. Delay could mean the difference between life and death. “Harvey, you have to reason with him,” Tyler said. “He’s no good to us dead.”
“I will, but I wanted to bring you up to date. With our cover blown things’ll get hotter for sure.”
How much hotter could they get? Beside him, Mayson had fallen into a pouting silence after his stonewalling of her persistent ‘What did he say?’ Drawing her against him, he was surprised when her head settled on his shoulder.
“Have you thought of anything you need?” Harvey asked.
“New identities,” Tyler quickly replied. “Naples will soon be sealed off like Manhattan. We won’t have a prayer of getting out without them.”
“Does Corelli plan on keeping those short blond curls?”
“I’m afraid so,” he glanced at her resting head.
“How about money?” Harvey asked.
“We have plenty for the time being.”
“Good. I’ll get the IDs to you by Monday morning. Just sit tight until you hear back from me.”
“That shouldn’t be tough with cops pouring into Naples,” Tyler said.
“The guy you need to worry about won’t be wearing a uniform,” Harvey warned. “But he also won’t be difficult to spot. Leopold, I mean. The first sign of a six-six, three hundred pound ape with a glass eye, run like hell. You don’t want any part of him, trust me.”
As he hung up, Mayson renewed her assault. “Swanson’s in danger? How does it affect us?”
Patiently he addressed each question. At the end, she shook her head. “I’m so afraid for Swanson.”
He’d been warned, and Harvey would implore reason with another call. After that it was up to Gus.
Settling back in the darkness, their thoughts raced. Sleep proved elusive. L’Air Du Temps scented the air as she rolled towards him. He waited expectantly, but she said nothing. He’d learned his cue. “What’s the matter?”
“I never gave you permission to put your arm around me,” she replied.
“I keep forgetting that idle gestures require a license,” he sighed. “You must be more patient. And I also don’t recall granting you a permit to rest your head on my shoulder either, but I didn’t cite you for it.”
“Well it certainly won’t happen again.” She rolled away now, ripping the covers from him.
“That wasn’t nice, Mayson. Why are you acting like this?”
“Because I hate you.”
“You don’t hate me.”
“Well then, I’m very close.”
He drew her into his arms now, the moonlight exposing her glistening eyes. “Mayson, I know you’re frightened. But we’ll survive this and celebrate the day those pricks are carted off to prison.”
“And how will we manage all this?”
“I’ll need time to fill in the details.” He stroked her neck. A shiver of pleasure startled him and his fingers retreated.
She sighed. “I hope you understand I’m only allowing this intimacy because I’m frightened and much too exhausted to protest. So don’t get this close again, okay?”
He smiled in the darkness.
“I’m wearing L’Air Du Temps. Is that why you’re lying so close to me?”
“No, because you were upset.”
“Why didn’t the L’Air Du Temps make you want to?”
“That’s immaterial now since you just explained I wouldn’t be allowed to anymore.”
“But my question just now made it material again.”
“Go to sleep, Mayson.”