“Fair enough,” said Sandy.
“You were great in there, T.J.,” Sandy said, as the elevator headed down. “Thanks.”
“Like you said, boss, nothing to it. I didn’t even have to picture him naked.” T.J.’s face grew somber. The elevator came to a halt. “Now that you’ve got the go-ahead for the story, maybe you’d like to see the rest of my research.”
“Rest of your research?”
They stepped slowly from the elevator. T.J. nodded. “Into Krayman Industries. Everything’s not kosher there, if you know what I mean.”
Sandy stiffened and walked on ahead. “Sure. How about this afternoon?”
“What’s wrong with now?”
Sandy kept walking down the corridor. T.J. hurried in front of her.
“You don’t want to hear it, do you?” he charged.
Sandy looked away.
“What happened to getting to the bottom of Krayman Industries, boss?”
“Randall Krayman, T.J. That’s the story Shay approved upstairs.”
“And that sounds like Shay talking now; his distinction, not yours.” He paused and looked at Sandy as a few people walked by. “Randall Krayman is Krayman Industries. You can’t separate one from the other.”
“You can’t interview a corporation, T.J.”
“You can’t interview Krayman either, but that’s not stopping you from doing the story. I’ve got some material for you that might help it.”
Sandy’s features tensed. “This isn’t Columbia, T.J., it’s network headquarters. Things function differently here. I want this story, but it’s got to be on Shay’s terms. You know what those terms are. He made them plain.”
T.J. nodded blankly and started to walk away.
“This afternoon,” Sandy called after him. “I’ll look at what you’ve got then.”
“Sure,” T.J. said, too soft for her to hear.
The rest of the morning dragged for Sandy. She couldn’t get the confrontation with T.J. out of her mind. Surely what he had uncovered about Krayman Industries would be laced with suppositions in desperate need of substantiation. These were distractions she plainly couldn’t afford. They would cloud the true essence of her story and make pursuit of it even harder than it promised to be already.
But who was she kidding? She didn’t want to learn what T.J. had discovered because she couldn’t stand complications. She had gotten what she wanted from Shay, so her inclination was to leave well enough alone. Her field was people and with people selectivity could be maintained. The parts of their lives that didn’t figure into the story could simply be left out. It was up to her. Years disregarded in favor of the latest love affair or big budget film. Things were simpler that way. She felt more in control, even of Randall Krayman, a man she would have to profile without meeting. That was a challenge she could handle. But dragging Krayman Industries into it? No, she didn’t need that.
Sandy was still struggling with these issues when the elevator reached the lobby. It was almost noon and she had an early luncheon appointment to keep. As usual, she couldn’t exit the building without signing countless autographs. The people came in droves, and the circle around her seemed to engulf those walking past it. Sandy signed as many as she could but tried to keep moving. How she longed for those cold winter days when, wearing hat and scarf, she could walk about unrecognized. The people wanted to talk to her, discuss whatever was on their minds. Their voices rose above one another’s, competing, some reaching the level of screams as Sandy passed through the revolving door into the bright December day.
She was still signing autographs, hands beginning to stiffen, when the man shoved his way through the crowd to reach her. Sandy was only vaguely conscious of him until he was right before her, and then she felt a tremor of fear because his hand was reaching out, probing for her with something dark between its fingers.
At that instant Sandy knew all the fear celebrities live with in public, the vulnerability of fame and all its risks. John Lennon had been shot because he wouldn’t give an autograph, a bullet for every two letters.
The man grasped her with his left hand and Sandy felt a scream forming behind her lips. But it didn’t emerge until her eyes followed the man’s hand as it slid across her white jacket, leaving a trail of blood behind.
Then he was collapsing and pulling her down, and Sandy saw he was bleeding everywhere, his overcoat open now to reveal splotches of scarlet. His voice, dry and rasping, reached her as they fell together to the sidewalk, his words barely discernible through lips pressed against her ear.
“Stop them! You’ve got to stop them!”
Sandy was screaming again, feeling the man’s dying hands clutch at her.
“No time left! No—”
The man died with a rush of breath right then, but not before pushing the thin dark object into Sandy’s pocket-book.
Chapter 4
McCracken reclined tensely as the 747 streaked beneath the clouds toward Dulles International Airport. The pilot’s voice announced that the temperature in Washington was thirty degrees with overcast skies and a good chance of snow. Dull and dreary to say the least, which fitted Blaine’s mood perfectly.
They had given him little time to settle his affairs in Paris and then pack. Take everything, his orders said, you won’t be coming back. Three men escorted him to Orly late Tuesday morning, but none of them accompanied him on the plane. Why should they bother? McCracken had no place to go but home. Running was not an option. Sure he could do it, quite effortlessly in fact. But they would catch up with him before too long. There was no place he could hide if they wanted him bad enough. All that crap about being too good to go after was the stuff of fiction, not reality. No matter how good you were, there were always enough of them to get you.
Blaine wondered what they would do if he didn’t show up at the airport. What if he just boarded another jet and headed for South America? No, they couldn’t let him go. If he cooperated, they’d let him live, but total freedom was out of the question. They’d bury him somewhere deep where he couldn’t scratch his balls without an eye down his shorts.
The jet landed and McCracken moved slowly through Dulles en route to the baggage claim area. The whole of his life filled two suitcases and a packer bag, and he was not surprised to see a burly well-dressed man waiting to help him tote the stuff and escort him from the airport. The big man recognized him immediately, and his eyes avoided Blaine’s as he hefted one of the suitcases.
“This way,” the man said, and those were the only words exchanged between them. There was no reason to say more.
The man led him toward a Cadillac limousine with its engine purring. Blaine opened the back door for himself as the big man climbed behind the wheel.
“Good afternoon, Mr. McCracken. I trust your flight was comfortable.”
The voice surprised Blaine because he had expected to ride alone. A reception party seemed uncalled for.
“There was enough turbulence to make me feel right at home,” he told the gray-haired man in a tan overcoat. Blaine sat down and closed the door behind him. The driver pulled away. The opaque glass divider slid up between the seats.
“The name’s Stimson, Blaine, Andrew Stimson. I run the Gap.”
More surprise flashed in McCracken’s eyes. “The name was sufficient.” He hesitated. “I was expecting the standard Company escort, a couple of twin goons like your driver up there. I guess I should feel honored.”
“The Company doesn’t even know you’re back in the States.”
“What?”