Game Over (5 page)

“A little bit of everything. I'll make the coffee. Are you going to join me?”

“Damn straight. We need to celebrate. Oh, Maggie, do you think it's even remotely possible that one day soon I will be sitting on the Supreme Court, just the way Sandra Day O'Connor did? She was my idol, you know. Still is.”

Maggie turned away from the sink, where she was measuring coffee into the pot. She set it down and placed her hands on Lizzie's shoulders. She looked deep into her friend's eyes and saw only honesty, integrity, and hope. “Honey, us
women
are going to put you there if that's what you want. As Annie would say, you can take that to the bank. You know the bank I'm talking about, the one that is owned by a woman in the District.”

Lizzie burst out laughing and almost dropped the ham she was holding.

The two women high-fived one another before Lizzie started to slice the ham.

One impossible dream coming up,
Maggie thought happily.

E
ven in the dark, with all the snow and the ground and tree lighting, Charles Martin thought it was the most beautiful spot in the entire world. He remembered thinking the same thing some thirty-odd years ago, when he'd been brought here as a guest of the owner.

Back then he'd been told this place was called Lord's Valley by the owner. These days it was called Jellicoe Valley. There was even a quaint sign five miles back, right underneath the road marker, that said so. This time he was coming as an uninvited guest.

Charles sucked in his breath, knowing that all manner of eyes, human and electronic, were on him, even though the night was pitch-black. He wondered just for a moment if he should get out of his Hummer and wave a white flag, but he didn't have a white flag to wave. He supposed a handkerchief would do it. On second thought, the wisest thing to do was probably just to sit there and wait for someone to come and get him.

The thought no sooner passed through his mind when he heard a light tap on the window. He pressed the power button and said, “You're good.”

The man ignored the compliment. “Welcome to Jellicoe Valley, Mr. Martin. Mr. Jellicoe said to ask you what took you so long.”

Charles chuckled. “A little of this, a little of that. Thirty years isn't all that long.”

There was no return chuckle. “Follow me, sir. Be sure to stay on my tracks. We don't want any unnecessary explosions. Mr. Jellicoe is partial to quiet, especially at this time of night.”

Claymore mines. Unlike Fish's spread in the Nevada desert and his pretend mines, Charles knew there were indeed mines surrounding Hank Jellicoe's hundred-acre spread here at the foot of the Allegheny Mountains.

When he'd been here a lifetime ago, it was just wild brush, scraggly trees, and a rustic three-room cabin. As he bounced along behind his escort, Charles tried to remember exactly when he'd seen an architectural rendering of Jellicoe's spread, as he liked to call it. Someone brave enough at the time had taken some aerial shots of the man's property, then had the audacity to publish his drawings in
Architectural Digest.
Why he'd never submitted the actual photos he'd taken was something that was never explained. Nor was the man's disappearance ever explained to anyone's satisfaction. He had heard, but was never sure if it was the truth or not, that
AD
had paid through the nose for invading Hank Jellicoe's privacy. Along with sending a note of sincere apology.

It was a wise man, or, in some cases, a wise woman, who learned that you did not bring down the wrath of one Hank Jellicoe, aka Jellicoe Securities, aka Global Securities. At least if you valued your life.

There were more lights now. To Charles's keen eye, it looked like a winter wonderland with all the lighting, the shimmering snow, and the fragrant pine trees. Christmas-card perfect. The cabin was still there, nestled among a copse of pine trees. He turned to the right and saw
the house.
Gabled and turreted, it spread out for what, Charles thought, could be several city blocks. The house was lit up from top to bottom. And there was a light on on the front porch. And it was a porch, one that wrapped around the entire house, from what he could see. Just like Motel 6, Hank had the light on for him. Good old Hank.

Charles strained to see beyond the house and thought he saw a row of garages, a stable, which made sense because Hank loved to ride early in the morning. Hank also liked to swim, so he knew somewhere there was a heated indoor pool and probably one outside, too. A tennis court was somewhere. He was sure of it. Just the way he was sure there was an airplane hangar and a helicopter pad, and if there was any deep water around, a yacht would be moored somewhere. Hank Jellicoe had it all going for him.

The four-wheel drive in front of him came to a stop. The man climbed out, his AK-47 slung over his shoulder. Charles knew the drill. He remained in the Hummer until the man approached his vehicle.

“You can get out now, Mr. Martin. Mr. Jellicoe is waiting for you. He held dinner for your arrival.”

“Very sporting of him,” Charles said. He reached behind him for his bag, but quicker than lightning, his escort had his arm in a vise.

“No need to carry your bag, Mr. Martin. I'll bring it up.”

As soon as you go through it, you mean
. Charles slid out of the Hummer and made his way up the steps to the old-fashioned front porch.

The monster cathedral-style door opened, and there stood his host. “What the hell took you so long, Charlie? Thirty years is a long time.”

Charles winced at being called Charlie. If anyone else but Hank Jellicoe had called him Charlie, he would have decked him on the spot. The men shook hands the way men do, then pounded each other on the back the way men do, before Jellicoe led Charles into the main part of the house.

It was a man's house, all leather and wood and polished wood floors. It smelled like a man's house, too. The scent of burning wood, pipe and cigar smoke hung in the air, but it was not unpleasant.

“Come along before dinner is ruined. We've been keeping it warm until you got here. We have all night to palaver. Venison is on the menu. I remembered how you like venison. A bunch of other stuff, too. And I made the pie myself, Charlie. It's every bit as good as yours. Wait till you taste it. Used the apples from the root cellar, so it's as fresh as can be. Got a secret ingredient in there, which you are never going to figure out,” Hank Jellicoe said by way of greeting.

Charles looked at his host and grinned. “We'll see.”

Henry, Hank to those near and dear to him, Jellicoe was a tall man, six-four or so, with snow-white hair, weathered skin bronzed by the sun, wrinkles that were more like trenches, and the sharpest blue eyes ever to grace a man. His teeth, whiter than snow in his dark face, could light up the night. He boasted that his weight, 180 pounds, was the same as it was the day he turned eighteen. He was lean and rangy, sinewy from his neck to his toes. Dressed in his favorite garb of worn, tattered, and battered jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, with boots he had specially made for his size-sixteen feet. Charles knew for a fact he had the strength of an ox. But what Charles respected most about Hank Jellicoe was that he was an honest, fair, and generous man. The three traits Charles most admired in a man. Or woman.

Jellicoe escorted Charles to a long table set for two. “First things first, Charlie. I want to get it out of the way. Tough break about your son. I did what I could. I want you to know that.”

“I know you did, Hank. I tried to get word to you.”

“I got the word.”

And that was the end of that conversation.

Charles sat down and opened his napkin. “Has there been any…”

“Don't go there, Charlie.
That
topic is not up for discussion.”

Charles looked into the sharp blue eyes and gave a nod.

Jellicoe shook out his own napkin and leaned back when his server placed a huge platter of food in front of him. “So you finally tied the knot. I have a wedding present in the hall closet. I hope Myra likes it. Heard you didn't much care for that water bed in the Caymans.”

Charles burst out laughing. “Is there anything you
don't
know?”

Jellicoe grinned. “Nope. Does Myra know you're here?”

Charles stopped chewing on the delectable venison and said, “I thought you just said you know everything. Myra is fine. No, she doesn't know where I am, but by now I'm thinking she's probably figured it out. There's a special place in her heart for you, you know that, right?”

“I do. I would move heaven and earth for that lady. In part, she's responsible for who and what I am today. I don't forget things like that. And the…girls?”

“For someone who knows everything, there seems to be a few gaps in your intel, Hank. The girls are fine, but we find ourselves in a bit of a quandary at the moment.”

Jellicoe nodded.

“So, are you on a hiatus, vacation, what?” Charles asked. “I remembered you always liked to be home for Christmas and took a wild chance I'd actually find you in residence. What do you call this place these days?”

Jellicoe laughed. “I call it my house. One of my operatives said it reminds him of a mall. I like space, Charlie. Lots and lots of space. Don't know why that is. It just is. I do love Christmas. I had a big tree with colored lights. Did the whole drill, wreath on the front door, candles in the windows. Presents under the tree for the help. It was depressing as hell. How's things on the mountain?”

“It gets confining at times, but we've adjusted. Every so often we develop a raging case of cabin fever. What's the word on Pappy?”

“Contented on that mountaintop in Spain you swapped out. I've been trying to entice him back into the fold, but so far I'm not having any luck. You want to do an intervention?”

“No. He has three youngsters these days. Kids need to know their father and see him every day. You and I both know that. Leave him alone, Hank. How long are you going to be here before you trot off somewhere?”

“Well, the plan was for me to leave here at the end of the week, but when I found out you were on the way and the why of it all, I put those plans on hold. We'll get to that later. You ready for my pie now?”

“I feel like I should loosen my belt, but, yes, I'm game. You still think I won't be able to figure out your secret ingredient?”

“Ha! I would have made a hell of a pastry chef, but this crazy-ass sweet tooth would do me in. I try to limit my sugar. We aren't getting any younger, you know. Now you have to watch your triglycerides, your good and bad cholesterol, all that crap. Just so you know, mine are all within normal boundaries. How are yours?”

“Perfect.”

“My ass they're perfect. Look at the weight you put on, Charlie. All you do is sit behind a computer.”

“When I get back to the mountain, I'll fax you my medical report. Like I said, they're perfect, which leads me to believe yours are not.”

Jellicoe flinched. “You always were a show-off, Charlie. Well, here's our pie. It's my turn to show off. Eat hearty, my friend.”

Charles did eat hearty and savored every bite of the delectable flaky pastry. “Almost as good as mine, Hank.”

Jellicoe threw his head back and laughed. “I guess we could have a bake off if you hang around here long enough. So, what's the secret ingredient?”

Charles snorted. “Pomegranate. Did you really think I couldn't taste it? Maybe, I'm thinking, a quarter cup of the pulp.”

“Son of a bitch! How did you figure it out?”

“I tasted it, you son of a bitch!”

Jellicoe was still pretending to be outraged when he said, “Coffee and brandy in my study and a really good Cuban cigar.”

“I'm your man,” Charles said, pushing back his chair.

Settled in front of the fireplace, which rose all the way to the ceiling and held half an oak tree, which sent sparks shooting up the chimney, Hank Jellicoe poured hundred-year-old brandy into a snifter and handed it to Charles. “To the best of the best,” Jellicoe said, clinking his glass against Charles's snifter.

In spite of himself, Charles was flattered. “At pie baking,” he quipped.

Jellicoe roared with laughter. “That, too! So, talk to me, Charlie.”

“It's about Lizzie Fox. Lizzie Fox Cricket these days.”

Jellicoe roared again with laughter. “Now, who in the world would ever think old Kick could get himself a filly like Miz Lizzie? Sure as hell not me. I have to tell you, I was dumbfounded. I sent a smashing present to the newlyweds. Got a sweet handwritten note from the new Mrs. Cricket. I love that little lady like she was my own daughter. You know that, Charlie, and I think of Kick as a son. But then you know that, too. Articulate and fill in all the little ifs, ands, and buts. I'll take it from there.”

Charles talked. For an hour. With no interruptions. The 140-proof, hundred-year-old brandy bottle was down to the quarter mark. The oak log was still burning as brightly as both men's eyes.

Jellicoe reached for a second cigar, clipped the end, and handed it to Charles. He did the same for his own. Both men puffed contentedly. “The big question, Charlie, is this. Does Lizzie want to go to the Supreme Court? If she does, we have the power to put her there. If she doesn't, this is all moot.”

“Lizzie never puts herself first. She's worried about the vigilantes. She's worried about Cricket. There's the commute from Vegas to here. She might want it so bad she can taste it, but she won't lift a finger to help herself if she thinks it will cause one iota of trouble for the vigilantes or her new husband. That's why Lizzie is Lizzie. Ten years ago, when you needed her, she pulled it together for you and didn't take a fee. At least that's the story I heard at the time. She said—correct me if I'm wrong—‘I might need a favor someday, and I expect you to come through for me.' We both know she'd never ask, so it's up to you to honor that favor, don't you think?”

“You son of a bitch! Where do you get off telling me I would even think about not honoring the favor, and I know she'd never ask? Do you hear me? I know that, Charlie.”

“No need to get your knickers in a twist, Hank. I'm just saying. Do you still walk in and out of the White House like it's your summer home?”

“Well, yeah, when I'm in town,” Jellicoe drawled. “I like the new president. We get along just fine. She told me to call her Marti. I'm Henry to her. She likes biblical names for some reason. But she did say Hank suits me. Yep, we get along just fine.”

“Now why doesn't that surprise me, you old reprobate?”

Jellicoe grinned from ear to ear. “Back to business. But first off, did you ever sleep in the Lincoln Bedroom? I did, and it sucked. But the company more than made up for it.”

“That's more than I needed to know, Hank.”