His vessels were on power lifts, and he lowered the jet boat into the water, fired it up and turned on the running lights. He hit the throttle and went out about two miles, breathing in the brisk air, letting it wash over him. He entered an uninhabited cove, cut the engine, dropped anchor, poured a glass of wine and contemplated his now grim-looking future.
When news spread that a person in the WITSEC program had been murdered in his law office, King would once more be in the national spotlight, something he was dreading. The last time, one tabloid went off the deep end, running a story actually claiming he’d been bribed by a violent, radical political group to look the other way while Clyde Ritter was gunned down. Well, the libel laws were still alive and well in the United States, and he’d sued and won a large settlement. He’d used this “windfall” to build his house and start life anew. Yet the cash hadn’t come close to erasing what had happened. How could it?
He sat up on the boat’s gunwale, kicked off his shoes, stripped off his clothes and dove into the dark water, stayed under for a bit and then came up sucking oxygen. The lake was actually warmer than the outside air.
His career as a Secret Service agent really came crashing down when a video of the assassination, taken by a local TV news crew covering the Ritter event, was released to the public. It clearly showed him looking away from Ritter far longer than he should have. It showed the assassin drawing his gun, pointing it, firing, killing Ritter, and all the while King had been staring off, as though in a trance. The clip even showed children in the crowd reacting to the gun before King realized what was going on.
The media had chosen to excoriate King, no doubt fueled by the outcry of Ritter’s people and not wanting to appear biased against an unpopular candidate.
He could recall most of the headlines: “Agent Lets Eyes Wander While Candidate Dies”; “Veteran Agent Blows It”; “Asleep at His Post.” Or the one that read, “So That’s Why They Wear the Shades,” which under different circumstances might have actually made him chuckle. Worst of all, though, he’d been largely shunned by his fellow agents.
His marriage had fallen apart under the strain. Actually it had started to fall apart long before that. King had been gone far more than he was home, sometimes leaving on an hour’s notice, with no fixed return date. Under those pressing circumstances he’d forgiven his wife’s first affair and even the second. The third time, however, they separated. And when she quickly agreed to a divorce after his world fell in, well, he couldn’t say he’d spent a lot of time crying about it.
And yet he’d survived it all and rebuilt his life. And now?
He slowly climbed back on board the jet boat, wrapped a towel he kept in the boat around his middle and drove back. Instead of going to his dock, he cut the engine and running lights and pulled into a small cove a few hundred yards down from his place. King quietly dropped the small mushroom anchor in the water to keep his boat from drifting into the muddy bank. Up near the rear of his house a beam of light was arcing back and forth. He had visitors. Perhaps it was the media sniffing around. Or perhaps, he thought, Howard Jennings’s killer had come looking for another score.
11
King quietly waded to shore, put his clothes back on and was now squatting in the darkness behind some bushes. The light still swung back and forth as someone moved through the area that ringed the eastern perimeter of his property. King made his way toward the front of his house shielded by a wall of trees. There was a blue BMW convertible parked in the driveway that he didn’t recognize. He was about to go over to it when he decided the best course of action was to get some hardware. With a nice big pistol in hand, he’d feel a lot better about things.
He slipped inside the dark house, got the gun and went back out a side door. The arc of light had disappeared now, and that had him worried. He knelt down and listened. The sharp crack of a fallen branch reached his ears. It had come from his right, barely ten feet away; then came a footstep and then another. He braced himself, his pistol ready, safety off.
He launched himself, hitting the person low and hard and landing on top of him, King’s pistol right in his face.
Only it wasn’t a him. It was a her! And she had a pistol out too. It was pointed at him, the barrels of the two guns almost touching.
“What in the hell are you doing here?” he said angrily when he saw who it was.
“If you’d get off me, I might have the breath to tell you,” she snapped.
He took his time climbing off, and when she reached a hand out for him to assist her, he ignored it.
She was wearing a skirt, blouse and short jacket. The skirt had slid up to nearly her crotch during the collision. As she struggled to regain her feet, she tugged it back down.
“Are you in the habit of mugging all your visitors?” she said testily as she put her gun back in the waist clip and brushed herself off.
“Most of my visitors don’t go sneaking around my property.”
“Nobody answered the front door.”
“Then you go away and call another time. Or didn’t your mother teach you?”
She folded her arms across her chest. “It’s been a long time, Sean.”
“Has it? I hadn’t noticed. I’ve been kind of busy with my new life.”
She looked around. “I can see that. Nice place.”
“What are you doing here, Joan?”
“Came to see an old friend who’s in trouble.”
“Really? Who’s that?”
She smiled demurely. “Murder in your office. That’s trouble, isn’t it?”
“Sure it is. I was talking about the ‘old friend’ part.”
She nodded toward the house. “I’ve driven a long way. I’ve heard about the southern hospitality around here. Care to show me some?”
Instead, he contemplated firing a round over her head. Yet the only way he would find out what Joan Dillinger was up to was to play along. “What sort of hospitality?”
“Well, it’s almost nine o’clock and I haven’t had dinner. Let’s start with that and then go from there,” she said.
“You show up unannounced after all these years and expect me to cook you dinner? You’ve got some guts.”
“That shouldn’t surprise you by now, should it?”
As he fixed the meal, Joan explored the main level of his home, carrying the gin and tonic he’d given her. She perched on the counter in the kitchen while he worked away. “How’s the finger?” she asked.
“It only hurts when I’m seriously ticked off. Sort of like a mood ring. And just so you know, it’s throbbing like hell right now.”
She ignored the barb. “This place is spectacular. I heard that you built it yourself.”
“Gave me something to do.”
“I didn’t know you were a carpenter.”
“I worked my way through school building things for people who could afford it. Then I decided what the hell, I’d do it for myself.”
They ate at the table off the kitchen that had a commanding view of the lake. With the meal they drank a bottle of merlot he’d fetched from his wine cellar. Under different circumstances it would have been a very romantic setting.
After dinner they carried their wineglasses into the family room, with its cathedral ceiling and walls of window. When he saw she was shivering some, King turned on the gas fireplace and tossed her a throw blanket. They sat across from each other on leather couches. Joan kicked off her heels and curled her legs up under her and then placed the blanket over them. She raised her glass to him. “Dinner was fabulous.” She breathed in the wine’s bouquet. “And I see you’ve added sommelier to your list of credentials.”