Roland gazed into the forest. Nothing there.
Don’t tell me I’m cracking up. I thought peace and quiet was supposed to calm your nerves.
He moved away from the window, shrugging off Wendy’s half-hearted attempt to lull him into a kiss. “By the way, honey, have you been using the computer?”
“Not since yesterday.” Her tone barely hid the hurt of rejection. “Why?”
Because I wonder if you’ve been sending me e-mails. The enemy within. That’s how they get you. That’s how it always goes bad.
“Nothing,” he said. “It’s just been a little glitchy.”
“You’ve been acting a little glitchy yourself. Where are you going?”
“To get the gun, just in case that fox comes back.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Burchfield made a campaign stop in Charlotte, speaking to a women’s group about the importance of funding early-childhood education, addressing a Rotary Club crowd at breakfast, stopping by the city library for a photo op, and giving a short interview to a Charlotte Observer beat reporter.
Wallace Forsyth admired the way the man slightly adjusted his personality to fit each situation while maintaining the polished veneer of the career politician. Forsyth was no political slouch, but playing folksy, down- home politics in East Kentucky was a much simpler game than prepping for the national stage.
Now, as they drove northeast toward Raleigh on I-85, Burchfield studied the morning edition of the Observer.
“Only down six points,” Burchfield said. “Thank the Lord for Tea Party wackos fracturing the base.”
“Now, Daniel, they’re a vital part of your constituency,” Forsyth said. “Besides, you’ve got plenty of time to make a push. The Iowa caucus is still seven months away. Lots can happen between now and then.”
“Yeah. Like some goddamned TV celebrity could enter the race.”
“You got ’em all beat on looks,” Forsyth drawled. “And you got most of ’em beat on money. Just keep beating that donkey with a stick and it will start braying like a jackass.”
Burchfield softened slightly at the compliments. He flapped the newspaper, folded it, and tossed it on the back ledge. The driver, a Secret Service agent named Abernethy, was separated from them by a layer of soundproof glass. The back of the limousine had become an informal Command Central for the campaign, although the official headquarters were in Burchfield’s hometown of Winston-Salem.
They’d be setting up satellite offices around the country, but North Carolina was one of the few Southern Red states that occasionally swung Democratic. It was important for Burchfield to make a stand on his home turf, even if he had to fend off a pack of well-heeled conservative challengers in his own party first.
“Any news on the Morgans?” Burchfield asked.
Forsyth fished his cell from the inside of his jacket. It was some fancy BlackBerry and did all kinds of tricks that scared him half to death. Burchfield had forced him to learn to text and operate the pager system, but that was about all Forsyth could handle. He was afraid he’d hit the wrong button and send out some top-secret memo or one of those slips of the tongue that the media would twist out of shape.
But since it wasn’t government-owned, Burchfield had assured him, nobody could file a public-records request on his messages.
“Why don’t we just check up on them, if I can figure this thing out,” he said.
“Careful you don’t trigger the Star Wars missile defense system,” Burchfield teased.
“Maybe I could send a bomb into San Francisco and make the world a better place.”
“Now, Wallace, they’re American citizens just like the rest of us. If there’s any killing to be done, let’s keep it in the Middle East where it belongs.”
“California’s a lost cause, anyway. Unless you hog-tied Schwarzenegger as your running mate.”
Burchfield smirked. “You know the rules, Wallace. Never pick a sidekick who’s more macho than you are.”
“If I was younger, Daniel, I’d be mighty offended.”
“Don’t worry. The ‘elder statesman’ thing is in. Cheney, Biden, people kind of like a VP who stays in the background.”
Forsyth laboriously punched in the numbers. The limousine ride was smooth, but Wallace hadn’t eaten since the Rotary Club ham biscuits, and his blood sugar was a little low. When he thought he had the numbers right, he waited for the ring and the terse response: “Scagnelli.”
“It’s Wallace. What you got going on?”
“Doing my job.”
“That’s reassuring. And what exactly do you imagine that is today?”
“One thing I need to know. Do you have other agents on this job?”
“Just the CIA agents were brought into play.” Which was true, if Wallace considered the “job” to be keeping the Morgans under surveillance. “How did she react?”
“The doctor’s just going about her business. Well, she was. Then hubby went a little over the top.”
“Damn,” Wallace hissed, drawing a cocked eyebrow from Burchfield, who rarely heard him cuss. “Is he violent?”
“Well, not quite. He’s apparently stolen a car belonging to the Durham Technical Institute where he’s taking his cop classes.”
“That’s all we need, for the local police to get in on this.”
“No problem. Just call up the head of the program, tell him it’s a matter of national security, the whole bit. They won’t be too anxious for the media to get hold of the story. Talk about a black eye for your cop program.”
“Where are you now?”
“The Morgans are together, traveling away from town in the stolen car. No stops since he picked her up in Chapel Hill. I’m tailing them, but it’s not high-speed.”
“Good. Keep it below the radar as long as you can.”
“Let me handle it solo, and I can guarantee it. Bring in any others and it’s not my problem.”
“Do you know where they’re headed?”
“They’re heading north out of Chapel Hill.”
“Stay with them and call me when you find out the destination. Is he armed?”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“That means Dr. Morgan’s at risk. She must be protected at any cost.”
“Yesterday you wanted her dead at any cost.”
“That was yesterday. Those records the CIA hacked suggest she may be onto something. I want to know what it is.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any cost.”
“I heard you the first time.” A pause. “Sir.”
Forsyth rang off and prepared his response, wondering how much he wanted to tell his friend and political ally.
“That didn’t sound so good,” Burchfield said.
“Dr. Morgan probably has Seethe. Her husband’s as addled as a frog in a butter churn.”
“Goddamn it.” Burchfield punched the back of the seat with the bottom of his fist, causing Abernethy to slow and check the rearview. Burchfield gave an impatient wave forward and the driver accelerated again. “I didn’t trust them to destroy it, but I didn’t think they’d start playing with it.”
“Maybe this is a good thing, Daniel. If she’s cooked some of it up, then it didn’t die with Sebastian Briggs.”
“But we’ve searched her labs and her house and her office, checked up on all her associates, and tracked down every web search she’s made and every journal article she’s checked out. Lots of pieces, but no goddamned puzzle.”
