Split Second

She rewound the tape and watched it again. The bang came as Ramsey fired. But there had been a sound before that. She rewound the tape again and listened intently. There it was, like a beep or a clang, or a ding. That was it. A ding! It was coming from the direction where King was staring. And she seemed to hear a slight hush or whooshing sound.

She thought rapidly. A ding in a hotel almost always meant that an elevator car had arrived. And the whooshing sound could have been the elevator doors opening. The diagram of the room where Ritter was shot showed a bank of elevators. If an elevator door had opened, had it revealed anything to Sean King? And if so, why hadn't he said? And why hadn't anyone else seen something? Lastly, why hadn't anyone picked up on what she had just noted after having watched the tape a couple of times? But why was she so interested in Sean King and his plight from eight years ago? And yet she was interested. After days of tedium she wanted todo something. She needed action. Impulsively Michelle packed her bag and checked out of the hotel.

14

Like Michelle Maxwell, King had also risen early and was also out on the water. He was, however, in a kayak, not a scull, and was going considerably slower than Michelle. The lake was ripple-free at this hour, and the quietest it would be all day. This was the perfect place to think, and he needed to do a lot of that. Yet it wasn't to be.

He heard his name being called and looked up. She was standing on the rear deck of his house, calling out to him and holding up a cup of what he assumed was coffee. Joan was wearing the pajamas he kept in the guest bedroom. He took his time paddling back in and then walked slowly up to the house where she met him at the back door.

She smiled. 'Apparently you were the first up, but no coffee was on. That's okay, I live to provide suitable backup.'

He accepted the coffee from her and sat at the table after she insisted on making him breakfast. He watched her prancing barefoot around his kitchen in the pajamas, apparently playing the role of the happy vixen housewife with aplomb. He remembered that Joan, though one of the toughest agents the Service had ever produced, could be as feminine as any woman, and in private moments she could be downright sexually explosive.

'Still prefer scrambled?'

'That's fine,' he answered.

'Bagel, no butter?'

'Yep.'

'God, you're so predictable.'

I guess so, he thought. He ventured a question of his own. 'Any news on Jennings's death, or am I not cleared for it?'

She stopped cracking eggs. 'That's FBI territory, you know that.'

'Agencies talk to each other.'

'Not any more than they used to, really, and that was never a lot.'

'So you know nothing.' He said this in an accusatory manner.

She didn't answer, and instead scrambled the eggs, toasted the bagel and presented the meal complete with silverware, napkin and more coffee. She sat across from him and sipped orange juice while he ate.

'Not having anything?' he asked.

'I'm watching my figure. Apparently I'm the only one here doing that.'

Was it his imagination, or did her foot graze his leg underneath the table?

'What did you expect? After eight years we just jump back into the sack?'

She tipped her head back and laughed. 'In an occasional fantasy, yes.'

'You're crazy, you know that? I mean certifiable.' He was not joking.

'And I had such a normal childhood. Maybe I'm just a sucker for a man in shades packing heat.'

Okay, that time it was clear. Her foot had touched his leg. He was sure of that because it was still there and currently heading toward certain private areas of his person.

She leaned forward. Her gaze was not soulful; it was predatory. Clearly she wanted him, here, now, on the kitchen table in the middle of his 'predictable scrambled eggs.' She stood and slid off the pajama bottoms, revealing flimsy white panties. Next she slowly anddeliberately undid the pajama top as though challenging him to stop her at each button. He didn't. He just watched as the pajama top opened. She wore no bra. Joan dropped the pajama top in his lap and with one hand swept the dishes off the table and onto the floor.

'It's been way too long, Sean. So let's just do something about it.' She climbed up on the table in front of him and lay on her back, her thighs spread. Joan smiled as he stood, towering over her in her glorious, pandering near-nakedness.

'You going mainstream on me?' he asked.

'What do you mean?'

He glanced at the light fixture on the ceiling. 'You didn't go for the three-pointer with your underwear.'

'Oh, but the day's still young, Mr. King.'

Her smile disappeared as King picked up the pajama top and laid it delicately over her private parts.

'I'm going to get dressed. I'd appreciate if you'd clean up this mess.'

As he walked away, he heard her laughing. By the time he got to the top of the stairs, she called out, 'You've finally grown up, Sean, I'm so impressed.' He shook his head and wondered what insane asylum she had escaped from.

'Thanks for breakfast,' he called back.

As King was coming back downstairs after showering and dressing, there was a knock at the door. He glanced out the window and was surprised to see a police car, a U.S. Marshals van and a black SUV. He answered the door.

He knew Todd Williams, the police chief, since Sean was one of Todd's volunteer deputies. Todd looked distraught as one of two FBI agents stepped forward and flashed his credentials like he was brandishing a switchblade.

'Sean King? We understand that you have a pistol registered to you.'

King nodded. 'I'm a volunteer deputy. The public likes to see us armed in case we have to shoot any bad guys. So?'

'So we'd like to see it. In fact, we'd like to take it.'

King glanced sharply at Williams, who looked at him and shrugged and then took a huge, symbolic step backward.

'You have a warrant?' King asked.

'You're a former federal agent. We hoped you'd cooperate.'

'I'm also a lawyer, and we're not a real cooperative breed.'

'It's up to you. I've got the paper right here.'

King had pulled that same trick before as a fed. His 'search warrant' was often a photocopy of aNew York Times crossword puzzle neatly folded. 'Show it to me,' he demanded.

The warrant was produced and it was for real. They wanted his service revolver.

'Can I ask why?'

'You can ask,' said the agent.

Now the deputy U.S. marshal stepped forward. He was about fifty, stood about six-five and was built like a professional boxer, with broad shoulders, long arms and huge hands.

'Let's just cut the cute shit, okay?' he said to the agent before looking at King. 'They want to match it against the slug taken out of Jennings. I'm assuming you don't have a problem with that.'

'You think I shot Howard Jennings in my office and used my own service revolver to do it? What, as a matter