I bunked on the porch of the Graftons’ beach house that evening, the MP-5 within easy reach. When he got back that evening, the admiral told me he had called Sarah Houston. That’s all he said. I had been working for him when he sprung Sarah because she was the best hacker on the planet. If anyone could figure out what was going down, Sarah would be the one.
I handed him the automatic when he went upstairs to bed and kept the MP-5.
After the house quieted down and the lights were out, Kelly Erlanger came downstairs and crawled under the blanket with me. She was wearing pajamas — didn’t say anything, just curled up with her back to me and drifted off to sleep.
I was beginning to wish that she was a little more romantic. After everything we had been through this past week, maybe this wasn’t a good time. Still …
She was gone when I woke up, sometime before dawn. There was a nice breeze. I lay in the darkness listening. Occasionally a vehicle passed on the highway. The rumble of the surf was steady as clockwork. I was about to get up when I heard footsteps in the crushed-seashell street. The noise woke me completely.
I rolled off the couch as quietly as I could, picked up the MP-5, and crawled forward a few feet to a place I where could see up and down the street. I eased the silenced muzzle of the weapon forward, tried not to breathe.
Something was out there, something evil.
There — under the last streetlight, near the beach, someone with a big dog on a leash, walking toward the boardwalk over the dune.
Was I going to spend the rest of my life jumping at every footfall, every little noise?
A little disgusted with myself, I went inside and made a pot of coffee.
At ten after one on Friday afternoon I parked the car on a deserted country lane on the top of the bluff overlooking the Potomac and hiked through the woods toward Dorsey O’Shea’s mansion. I carried the submachine gun in my arms and had the automatic in my pocket. That morning I offered to leave the MP-5 with Admiral Grafton, but he said he had an old pistol in a drawer upstairs, and that would do.
Needless to say, I had no desire to run into anyone on this nite — uniformed police looking for someone to drag off to the clink would be bad, but camouflaged killers packing submachine guns lying in wait for anyone happening by could be fatal. I had seen those shrub-heads in their ghillie suits, so I knew how hard they would be to see. I took my time, kept the eyeballs going as I slipped through the woods, watching every step, every twig and branch, alert for anything that shouldn’t be there.
Believe me, I was sweating. One mistake and I was a goner. I knew it and was doing this anyway, which says more about my testosterone level than it does about my intelligence. Actually I didn’t have a choice — I was already in this mess up to my eyes. Marching into a police station and making accusations looked as attractive as a weekend of Russian roulette. Anyone who could reach into a CIA safe house to whack someone could get to me in any hole I picked.
When I got my first glimpse of Dorsey’s house, I got down on my belly and lay still for the longest time, looking and listening. Finally I crawled to where I could see better.
Lying there on the forest floor felt good. I didn’t want to move. Thought of a dozen reasons why I shouldn’t.
Finally I forced myself to do it. Stood and walked to the side of the house and pressed my back to it. Worked my way along the house to the corner and eased one eye around it.
The body of the man I had killed wasn’t there.
After a careful look all about, I walked over to where he had fallen and examined the grass and earth. The rain had almost washed out the bloodstains. I eased on over to the spot where I did the shooting. Sure enough, someone had picked up the spent cartridges. I have good eyes, and I looked — and didn’t see a single one.
Dorsey had given me a key to the kitchen door. Although she was a rich single woman living alone on the edge of one of the nation’s worst sewers — Washington, D.C. — Dorsey didn’t have a burglar alarm in her house. Go figure. I pushed the door open, then stood waiting for the hail of bullets that didn’t come. Finally I sucked it up and eased through the doorway.
I kept my shooter at waist height, leveled and ready, my finger off the trigger, and moved as slowly and silently as I could.
I was dripping wet with perspiration. If they didn’t hear me coming, they would smell me.
The body was gone from the foyer. Dorsey was going to be pleased to hear that whoever had carted off the corpse had also cleaned up the blood. I couldn’t see any stains.
I did the whole house room by room, floor by floor. Only when I was absolutely certain that I was the only person in the building did I go back to Dorsey’s room and root through her drawer for a passport. She gave me a list of things she wanted, makeup, dresses, swimsuits, and such, but I didn’t bother. She was wearing her Rolex and had her purse with credit cards, checkbook, and address book — she was ready to fly. Young women in her socioeconomic group didn’t wear jewels, which meant hard times ahead for guys like me if that trend didn’t change. Maybe I should stay with the government.
I locked the place up when I left, took a last look around, then set off back through the woods.
Who removed the bodies?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I headed for the Baltimore-Washington International Airport to meet Jake Grafton and Dorsey O’Shea. Traffic was heavy, as usual. Five million people in the metro area, and every one of them is out on the highway driving his own car when I want to get from here to there.
I was nervous — probably still tense from sneaking around the Rancho Dorsey trying to get shot. I didn’t think the police had hauled away those two bodies. If they had, they would have put up a mile of yellow crime scene tape and still be there taking pictures, lifting prints, and doing all that stuff the CSI dudes do on television.
Musing on these weighty matters, I became aware of a white sedan three cars back that was keeping pace with me as I rolled east on the interstate. The other cars darted in and out of traffic and occasionally peeled off to dart down an exit, but this guy stayed back, matching my speed.
Tommy, don’t be paranoid.
I allowed my speed to creep up another five mph, just for grins. The guy didn’t fall back.
I changed lanes, slid over behind a semi, which meant I had to slow down about five. The sedan changed lanes, too, yet he fell back a little when two cars cut in between us. They took the next exit, which left about fifty yards between me and the white sedan.
Just when I was starting to get worried, the white sedan dropped down the next exit, leaving me to motor along with my random companions. No one else seemed to be following.
It was late in the afternoon when I parked on the top deck of the close-in parking at BWI and rode the elevator down to the pedestrian bridge that led to the terminal. I was sitting in the lobby across from the airline counter when I saw them approaching. I handed Dorsey her passport.
“That’s all you brought?”
“I don’t believe in overpacking. That other stuff would just weigh you down.”
She bit her lip and tossed her hair. Grafton and I stood in line with her to present her passport and get her seat assignment. I told her that someone had removed the bodies from her house, and she nodded. I felt like the Roto-Rooter man telling her the drain was open.
After she did her business at the counter, Grafton and I escorted her to the security gate.
“You didn’t bring that thirty-eight along, did you?” I asked, trying to be casual. It would be just my luck for her to be arrested for smuggling a shooter through security. She would spill her guts in a heartbeat. Grafton and I wouldn’t make it out of the terminal.
“I left it at the admiral’s house,” she said distractedly.
She shook Grafton’s hand, then held out a hand to me. “Goodbye, Tommy.”
Well, what the hey! I wasn’t the guy for her, and she certainly wasn’t the gal for me. “So long, kid,” I told
