The Plot (13 page)

"What's that you say? His car? Where?"

"Yes, sir. They found it in a small lake with a man's body inside."

Jonathon's hand began trembling, and he dropped his cigarette to the floor. He crushed it with his boot. “You mean
under
water?"

"Yes, sir. I'm afraid so. But the Sheriff's people haven't been able to positively identify the body. Apparently, the man was not from around here. All they know is that he has oriental features. I'm here to take you to the morgue to identify ... uh, to see if it's your son."

"It's not him,” Jonathon said, shaking his head slowly.

Max wasn't surprised. The first reaction was always denial. “You can't be sure, Mr. Sinclair. Please. Come with me."

Jonathon said nothing for a long moment. At last, he stood. “I'll follow you,” he said, walking unsteadily toward the table where his wallet and keys lay.

"Uh, I think it would be better if you ride with me,” Max said, striding to the table ahead of the other man and picking up the keys.

Jonathon stared at him in silence for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. I reckon that'd be best,” he said at last, taking his wallet from the table and slipping it into his back pocket.

The bell above the door announced Cassie as she entered the small bookshop. The young man behind the counter looked up from the receipts he was tallying and smiled in her direction. She smiled back, then went to the newspaper racks, picked up the day's issue of the
Washington Times
, and carried it with her to the small table farthest from the wide front window. The simple round clock above the door read “6:50.” She hoped it was correct. Selena would only call once.

"Some coffee, Miss?” asked the clerk.

"Yes,
cafe au lait
, please."

"Hot or cold?"

"Cold, please,” she replied, opening the newspaper to the editorial section. She liked getting a feel for a newspaper's opinion about the day's news before reading the articles themselves. That way, she could anticipate and not be influenced by the spin the reporters inevitably wrote into their stories.

"Here ya go, Miss,” said the young man, placing the tall glass of frothy mocha liquid on the table. His eyes slid to the small corsage she wore. “Pretty. People don't usually dress up to come in here."

She gazed up at him. “Yes. I know."

He stood back, the color rising to his cheeks. “Can I get you anything else?"

"No. Thank you.” She smiled briefly and handed him four dollars for the coffee and newspaper before returning to the editorial that had captured her attention:

His was the voice of reason in a world gone amok. The voice which, for forty years, reminded us that the true calling of journalists everywhere is to ‘seek the light of truth and allow that light to dispel the shadows-uncensored, unvarnished, and without favoritism or bias.’ He reminded us of our unique national heritage and our unique responsibility to that heritage. He was Madison Hart-colleague, friend, and mentor to this writer-gone now from the pages of newsprint to the pages of history.

The bell above the door tinkled, drawing Cassie's attention to a small, wiry young man in a faded
WWF
T-Shirt entering the store. He glanced in her direction, then sauntered to the counter, ordering coffee. “Black, no sugar,” she overheard him say curtly. He dug into the pocket of his torn jeans and counted out two dollars in quarters and dimes. Homeless, she thought, watching him from the corner of her eye as he carried the mug labeled “Books and Beanz” to the table beside hers and sat down facing her.
Odd. People usually sit as far from one another as they can, especially in a reading room
. She looked back at the editorial but had trouble focusing on anything but the feel of his eyes on her.

The telephone behind the counter rang softly, and a moment later, the clerk came over with the portable phone in hand. “Excuse me. Are you Miss Hart?” he asked, handing her the telephone when she nodded.

"Hello?” Cassie said softly, glancing at the man at the next table staring at her.

"It's me, Darling."

"Yes. Uh, sure. Let me see,” she replied, standing and making her way to the bookshelves along the far wall.

"Is it difficult for you to talk?” Selena asked.

"There's a man watching me, but I'm far enough away now,” Cassie replied, pretending to search for a title among the stacks.

"I take it you found everything? The ‘charm’ and all?” She sounded tense.

"Yes. It's all been taken care of."

"Good. How is everything going?"

"As well as it can. Selena? Who is Joshua?"

She paused. “A good friend. Someone who was helping Madison, eh, your father. Why?"

"He sent me some pictures, and I don't know what to make of them."

"It is his way of telling you he has heard about your father's death,” she replied and, pausing, changed to a lighter tone of voice. “He's looking forward to meeting you."

"I'm going to Florida tomorrow,” Cassie responded. “Selena, where are you? Is there some way I can reach you if I need to?"

"No, darling.” Her voice was soft and low again. “But if you, eh, follow in your father's footsteps, I will be able to reach you. Unless something happens..."

"Selena, the FBI has taken charge of investigating Daddy's death and the burglary. They claim it has something to do with ‘national security.’ I asked Uncle Hamilton to look into it for me, and he said he would. Are you in danger?"

"We all are, Cassie. You must be very careful."

"I know, even though Uncle Hamilton assured me otherwise. And, Selena? I think he's looking for you. Shall I let him know I spoke with you?"

"What makes you think so?"

"I overheard his security man ask him if you'd been located."

"I
see.
Well, I'm not surprised. But, no, Cassie, you must
not
tell anyone that we have spoken.” Her voice rose a little. “Especially not Hamilton Bates."

"He knows a lot of people. He can help."

Selena was silent for several seconds. When she finally answered, she was emphatic. “Cassie, please. Just do as I say. Tell
no one
about me. And say nothing to anyone at all about
your
activities."

"Uncle Hamilton suggested I go to the mountains for a few days of rest. I let him think I would."

"Good girl.” Selena sounded relieved. “I cannot talk much longer. Be sure to stay where ‘the welcome mat is always out,’ okay? And, Cassie, you will be safer if you register ‘double occupancy’ for your room. I would, eh, travel with you, but I must take a detour. There are those who are eager to have a word with me that I do not wish to speak to.” She paused. “How long will you be, eh, vacationing?"

"I figure about a week, but I'll stay as long as I'm, uh, enjoying myself. I quit my job at
The Beat
this morning, so I'm free to come and go.” As she spoke, Cassie turned to steal a glance at the T-shirted man. He was still watching her.

"That is good. Cassie, your father would be very proud of you. As am I. I will be back in touch. Meanwhile, pay close attention to
everything
around you. Treachery lurks where you may least expect it."

"Don't worry, I will. Thanks for everything. Hope you can join me. Exploring will be much more fun with you along."

"I'll try, Darling.
Vaya con Dios
,” Selena said, breaking the connection.

"Go with God,” Cassie echoed into the dead receiver. She handed the telephone back to the shopkeeper and left. As she passed the big window, she couldn't help stealing a glance inside. The T-shirted man picked up the newspaper she'd been reading and carried it to his own table. She smiled at her own suspicions.
He was just waiting for my paper. Hope he's gonna check the want ads. Looks like he could use a job.

Lights shone through the windows of the funeral home that served as the county morgue, and Max sensed Jonathon bracing himself when they pulled up to the front. Shutting the engine off, he opened the truck window and leaned back against the seat, his arm on the window sill. “Mr. Sinclair, what you're about to see is going to be difficult, whether it's Philip or not,” he said kindly, looking across the darkened cab at the man staring at the building in front of them. “The body had been in the water for at least forty-eight hours."

Jonathon turned to him and nodded. “I'm ready,” he said, opening the door and climbing out.

The buzzer was answered by a rotund man of about fifty in a white polo shirt and dark blue slacks, who introduced himself as funeral director and county coroner. Max showed him his badge; then he and Jonathon followed single file through a plush office to a large heavy door marked “Authorized Personnel Only,” and, finally, into a small anteroom with barren white walls and a gleaming white tile floor.

"Wait here,” the coroner said. He went into the room on the other side of a wide window that was heavily curtained from the inside.

Max stole a glance at Jonathon and felt a pang of pity. The aging handyman stared at the curtains in front of him, jaw clenched so tightly his muscle twitched.
Philip's adoption went through ‘like magic,’ Cassie said. Jonathon and his wife had never been so happy.
He steeled himself for the old man's response as the curtains were drawn aside and Jonathon stepped closer to the window to look at the bloated face of the young man on the gurney.

"It's not him.” His voice was so soft, Max wasn't sure he heard right.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Sinclair. What did you say?"

Jonathon looked at him, tears welling into his brown eyes. “It's not him, Mr. Henshaw. That's not my Philip."

"Are you sure? Being in the water distorts—"

"It's not
him.
Philip had an inch-long scar on the right side of his chin from falling off his bike when he was seven years old. That there is
somebody's
son, but he ain't mine,” he reiterated as the coroner closed the heavy curtains.

The house was dark when Cassie pulled into the long driveway, and she cursed herself for not leaving at least one light on. The last thing she needed was for the whole world to know that no one was home. Or to break her neck walking up the dark steps. Of course, stopping by her apartment to get what she'd need for her trip had kept her out much later than she'd expected. She'd been tempted just to spend the night there, to get away from the ghosts for awhile, but she'd left the charm bracelet and safe deposit box key in Mother's jewelry box.

With a sigh, she turned off the engine and climbed out, thankful for the delay setting that would keep the headlights turned on a few extra minutes. As she unlocked the front door, the headlights went out, and she jumped at the sound of a voice.

"Miss Cassie? It's me. Philip."

She peered into the darkness as the young man's familiar form emerged from the shadows. “Philip?"

"Yes, Miss Cassie. I'm sorry I scared you. But I need to talk to you, and I wanted to be sure you were alone.” He spoke softly but there was a certain-intensity-in his voice.

Cassie's skin crawled. She wished she could see his face better, but the dim moonlight offered little help. “Uh, yes. How are you, Philip?” she asked, her mind racing.
Why does he want me to be alone? Does he really sound threatening or am I just being paranoid?

"I'm in trouble, Miss Cassie, and I don't know who else to turn to."

She looked at him for a moment, then pulled herself to her full height and strode across the porch to the rocking chairs. “I see,” she said, hoping that the evenness of her voice conveyed an impression of control. “Sit down and tell me about it.” She felt safer outside than in the house, where she could be easily trapped.

He sat on the other rocker, and when her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she noticed his head was bowed, his shoulders slumped. He looked more like the boy she remembered than the man who had seemed so threatening just a moment ago.

"What is it, Philip?” she urged, breaking into his prolonged silence.

He turned his face toward her as he spoke. “I didn't do it, Cassie. I swear on my mother's grave that I didn't."

She grimaced. “Kill my father, you mean.” It was not a question.

"Yes. I had nothing to do with it. You've gotta believe me."

"It was your car.” She couldn't keep the accusation from her voice.

He looked down at his hands. “I know. I just found that out a little while ago. But, if I had done it, would I come here?"

She pondered that a moment.
Who in God's name knows what a killer would do?
“I don't know, Philip. Would you?"

A sob escaped his throat. “You don't believe me. But you've gotta. They're after me, and you're the only one who can help."

"Who killed my father? Tell me that, Philip. Who wanted my father dead?” The hate that twisted inside of her dripped from her voice.

"Ernie, I think."

"Ernie? Who the hell is Ernie?"

"My dealer. I owed ‘im a thousand dollars. He said that if I'd let ‘im use my car, he'd forget I owed ‘im anything and even throw in a couple extra rocks as a bonus. You've gotta understand, Miss Cassie. I didn't know why he wanted it, only that it would get ‘im off my back. He'd threatened to burn down Pop's house if I didn't pay ‘im, so I figured it was a good deal. If I'd known, I never would've let ‘im use my car. I swear.” The words tumbled from his mouth, gathering speed as he talked.

Cassie's stomach turned in upon itself, and she had trouble breathing.
A thousand dollars? My God.
She pictured her father's broken body, the blood that clung to his forehead, his nose, his white shirt. “A thousand dollars,” she finally breathed into the humid night air. “Does this Ernie have a last name?"

"I don't know what it is. I just always called him Ernie. I don't even know if that's his real name.” He didn't look at her, staring instead at the moonlit lawn that stretched in front of them.

"So this ‘Ernie’ decided my father's life was only worth a thousand dollars on the open market,” she said through clenched teeth. “Why would
he
want my father dead?"