The lashes fluttered, and then his eyes opened; unfocused, and heavy with sleep.
“Hello, sweetie,” she whispered. “It’s only me. Go back to sleep.”
The eyes closed again, and right away, she knew he hadn’t heard a thing. She wanted him to be awake, though; she wanted to tell him so many things. But he needed his sleep and the rest that came with it. Leaning back again, to ease the growing spasm in her neck, she lifted Travis’s hand from where it lay on top of the sheet, and kissed it, careful not to disturb the IV lines. In the yellow darkness, she studied his long, slender fingers. The nails needed trimming, as they always did, and they were dirty. Amid all the sterility and all the technology clustered around his helpless form, those dirty fingernails seemed like a final remnant of boyhood.
“I love you, Travis,” she whispered.
The fingers flexed in her grasp. A sleepy attempt to let her know he was there with her, after all. His eyes fluttered open again, and it looked for all the world as if he was trying to smile; but in the end, he just couldn’t make it happen. His lips faltered, then started to tremble around the ugly white-tipped tube that continued to rob him of his voice. He looked at his mom for a long moment, and through his gaze, she could feel his fear and his anger.
“Travis, honey, I’m so sorry. I’m so-” Suddenly, her voice stopped working.
He fought hard for control, shutting his eyes tight and folding deep lines into his forehead. But it was a losing battle. Tears bubbled up from behind his eyelids and tracked lazily over the pale, taut flesh of his cheekbones. He squeezed his mother’s hand tightly now, as his body began to tremble, and his mask of bravery folded in on itself. Filtered through the respirator, his sobs were merely whispers against the silence of his room, rendered even more pitiful by the rhythmic hum of machinery that a child should never have to see.
She kissed his hand again and rested her forehead on his bed rail, ignoring the darts of pain from her neck. Her baby needed her now. And she’d stay right by his side for as long as it took for him to smile again.
It was nearly eight o’clock when the senator reluctantly turned the phone back on, and within two minutes, it rang. Here we go again. He considered ignoring it but took a deep breath instead. “Hello?”
“Hi, Clayton,” the familiar voice said from the other end. “This is Harry Sinclair. I think we’ve got a breakthrough on that matter we discussed the other day.”
The senator’s heart skipped a beat. He’d discussed only one issue with his longtime friend and contributor, and for him to announce a breakthrough, it had to be momentous. “Good morning, Harry. Sounds interesting.”
“What are you doing for lunch this afternoon?”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Thorne hadn’t driven much through D.C. and had trouble finding the address he needed on Connecticut Avenue. He had to circle the block a few times before he finally hit his signal and turned into a narrow alley between two commercial buildings. The one on the left advertised itself as an appliance store, while the one on the right-the one that proved to be their destination-had no writing on it at all.
“We’re here,” he announced.
Jake seemed unaware that they’d even stopped. Without a word, he refocused his eyes from the spot he’d been watching on the dashboard, to take in their immediate surroundings. Seemingly satisfied, he pulled on the door handle to let himself out.
“Hey,” Thorne said.
Jake paused. “What?”
“Relax. You’re about to win. You can smile now.”
Jake looked at him for a long moment, wondering if he should even bother to respond. Wiggins’s death, the disposal of the body-it still weighed heavily on him. Smiling was the last thing he felt like doing.
“He was an insect, Jake. A parasite. And we squashed him. Let it go.”
Jake nodded, not out of agreement but out of resignation, and emerged slowly from the car. He stood up straight, as if to walk away, then turned back again to lean into the driver’s-side window.
“Thanks, Thorne,” he said. “And thank Harry for me when you see him.”
The big man picked up the money bags from the floor of the front seat. “Here, don’t forget these.”
Jake waved his hand. “No, you keep it. One way or another, I won’t be needing it anymore.”
“You nuts?” Thorne scoffed. “Mr. Sinclair doesn’t need this back.”
“Tell him to give it to charity then,” Jake said. “I don’t want it.”
Thorne eyed him for a long moment, then shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said. He threw the shift lever into drive. “Say, when you catch up with Sunshine, you tell her to give us a call, okay?” he said.
“Sure,” Jake replied, and watched as the Grand Marquis pulled away from the curb.
He climbed the front stairs to the door, where he took a deep breath before ringing the bell. Instinctively, he avoided looking into the security camera, pretending instead to inspect his shoes. After a few seconds, the door buzzed, and he stepped inside.
As he crossed the threshold and waited uneasily for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room, he began to see just how wonderful a place he’d entered: a restaurant where the aroma of fine foods was every bit as opulent as the furnishings. Typical of Washington town houses of the Federal era, this one seemed to extend forever, from front to back, with a wide stairway interrupting the center hall about halfway down, on the right-hand side. Off to either side, in what would have been the living room, dining room, parlor, and library, he could just glimpse the white linen and exquisite crystal.
He stood in the entryway, his back to the wall, waiting for someone to greet him. “Anybody here?” he called softly.
A second later a tuxedoed maitre d’ appeared from behind the stairway and strode down the hallway. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said cheerily. “Mr. Donovan, I presume.”
Jake accepted the man’s firm and vigorous handshake. “And you must be Eddie Bartholomew.”
Eddie nodded. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Donovan.”
“Call me Jake.”
“And you can call me Eddie.” He led his guest as far as the reception lectern, then stopped. “I’ve spoken to Mr. Sinclair,” he said, “and he has vouched for you, but still, you must understand that we have rules here at the Smithville.” He removed an ornate wooden drawer from somewhere off to the side of his stand and placed it on top of the lectern. “Place your weapons here, please.”
Jake found himself suddenly on edge. Thorne had explained in the car that the Smithville was neutral ground-the local equivalent of Switzerland-but this guy Eddie Bartholomew was a bundle of conflicting images. Dangerous yet polite; gracious yet brutish. Nonetheless, Jake understood the rules, and he placed his Glock inside the box.
“Any ammunition, too, please,” Eddie said. “Saves us an anxious moment when we use the metal detector.”
“What, you don’t trust me?” Jake quipped. He meant it as a joke, but Eddie took it seriously.
“No, I don’t,” he said. “Nothing personal, you understand. I don’t trust anyone. Can’t afford to.” He smiled.
Jake didn’t bother. There was no humor in it, anyway. He dutifully produced the two extra magazines from his jacket pockets and added them to the pile in the drawer.
“Is that all? No knives? No backup pieces strapped to an ankle somewhere?”
Jake shook his head. “That’s it.”
Eddie made a face that showed surprise, but he didn’t argue. “Mr. Sinclair assured me there would be no violence this afternoon.”
Jake had to quash a brief rush of amusement as he realized that under the top layers of gracious suspicion, there lay within Eddie a bedrock of fear. “Don’t worry,” Jake reassured. “My mission today is merely to talk.” He glanced over his shoulders. “Where’s the rest of your staff?”