Heirs of Cain (5 page)

“You’re a little on the early side. We don’t open for another two hours.” She moved behind the counter. “Wasn’t the front door locked? I’m sure it was.”

“No, it was unlocked,” he said, his voice deep yet soft.

“Well, I must be slipping in my old age.” She came out from behind the counter and extended her right hand. “I’m Frances Casey. I own the place.”

“And I’m—”

“Oh, I know who you are,” she interrupted. “From the way you’re dressed, you’re either a lawyer or a government man of some sort. My guess is government.”

“Very good. My name is George Armstrong. I’m with the FBI, and I’m here to—”

“Check out the security,” Frances said. She held up both hands in a forgive-me gesture. “That’s twice I’ve interrupted you. How ill-mannered. If my daddy were here, he’d swat my behind real hard. I’m truly sorry.”

“No problem.”

“Now, go on. You’re here to do what? Make sure everything is safe for our guests?”

“An excellent observation. You should be in my line of work.”

“No, thanks. It’s all I can do to come up with something decent enough for those folks to eat.”

“From what I hear, you do that just fine.”

Frances smiled. She liked this man. And not only because he was quick with a smile or a compliment. There was something genuine about him. Something real, solid. He certainly didn’t seem to be at all like the legions of standard-issue government officials and Yuppie lawyers she usually came in contact with. This one was a different breed altogether—a breed she much preferred.

“Whatever it is you have to do, you just go right ahead,” she said. “Consider the place yours. I’ll do my best to stay out of your way. If you do have any questions or need any help, give me a yell.”

“Thanks.”

“Would you care for a cup of coffee before you get started?”

“No, thank you. Never drink the stuff.”

“My God, man, I don’t see how anyone can function without a minimum of two cups of coffee first thing in the morning.”

“Coffee just isn’t my cup of tea.”

“Now, that’s clever.” She laughed.

Frances occasionally cast a discreet glance at the man as he went about his business. He was thorough; that was for sure—much more so than the men who were in there the day before. He inspected every corner, every crevice, every forgotten cranny, including several she would rather he left alone. As Frances watched him, she reminded herself to give the kitchen area an extra-good cleaning on Sunday.

“It’s a good thing you’re not from the health department,” she said, laughing. “You’ve looked into some places I didn’t know existed. I apologize for any mess you find.”

The man removed his Armanis, revealing eyes even darker than she suspected. He was, she surmised, a Native American and, most likely, a full-blooded one at that. Also, she judged him to be even more handsome without the glasses.

“No problem at all,” he said, looking behind the oven. “Actually, the place appears to be in tip-top shape from a security standpoint.” He folded his sunglasses and put them into his shirt pocket. “Where are your restrooms? Better not forget them.”

“Right this way,” Frances said, leading him back into the dining area and down a small hallway. “Would you like me to tidy up the ladies’ room a little before you go in?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Frances returned to the kitchen, leaving the handsome, dark-eyed man alone to do his business. She simply had to get on with her cooking. Time was fleeting; the big shots would be here before she knew it. She had to get hopping.

More than thirty minutes passed before it dawned on Frances that she hadn’t heard a peep from the man. She put down the knife she was using to peel potatoes and went into the dining area, then on to the restrooms.

Tapping on the door to the ladies’ room, Frances said, “Mr. Armstrong, you in there?” No answer. She opened the door and looked inside. Empty. She repeated the same routine at the men’s room, again getting the same results. The man was gone.
Peculiar
, Frances thought,
him leaving without saying goodbye
.

She walked to the front door. It was locked. Nice gesture on his part. No, he wasn’t at all like the usual self-absorbed, always-in-a-hurry hot shots who are too busy to show kindness or gratitude.
And what a damn fine-looking man. Handsome in every sense of the word. A real hunk
. Frances smiled.
Oh, to be a few years younger
.

Standing alone, Frances was struck by a strange sensation, a feeling that the past hour had been a dream, the Indian hadn’t really been there, and the front door had been locked from the beginning.

She frowned and shook her head. “You’re going bananas, girl; that’s all there is to it.”

Everything had gone smoothly, perhaps a little too smoothly, and that had Frances worried. She didn’t trust good times any more than she trusted a used car salesman. That was especially true when the situation presented so many possibilities for disaster. But so far, knock on wood, there hadn’t even been the slightest hint of trouble, of the disaster she feared.

Two things stood out: how much her guests appeared to be enjoying the food and how little they appeared to be concerned about security. The last part probably surprised her the most. After all, the guest list was heavy-duty: Sheik Abdul-Nahir, the number two man in Saudi Arabia; Ambassador Richard Froning; two U.S. Army generals; and a deputy chief of staff. For all this combined importance, they were behaving like regular folks out for an afternoon picnic.

Frances Casey was worried. Something just had to go wrong.

“My dear, this food is absolutely splendid,” one of the generals said to Frances’s niece Cynthia. “Simply marvelous.”

“Thank you, sir,” Cynthia said.

“Don’t let him fool you, young lady,” Ambassador Froning said in a voice heavy with Texas twang. “The general has been eating Army chow so long, he thinks McDonald’s is gourmet. He has no idea just how good this food is.”

Cynthia smiled awkwardly and walked back into the kitchen.

“Everything going okay?” Frances asked.

“So far, so good,” Cynthia answered.

“Well, keep on your toes.” Frances carried a pitcher of iced tea through the swinging door. “Anyone need a refill?”

“I could use another shot,” Froning said. “How about you, Abdul? Care for more tea?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

His perfect English surprised Frances. “How did you learn to speak our language so well?” she asked.

“I’ve spent a great deal of time in this country,” Abdul said. “Most of it during my college days.”

“Oh, so you went to school in the United States?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Mind if I ask where?”

“I earned degrees from Georgetown and Princeton. After that, I worked for several years at the United Nations.”

“Well, little wonder you speak English better than I do.” Frances finished filling the ambassador’s glass. “I’m surprised there isn’t more security.”

“There’s more than you might guess,” the ambassador said, looking around. “You simply don’t see it. Here but not here, if you know what I mean.”

Frances nodded. “I guarantee you one thing—if your people here now are half as thorough as the man who was here this morning, then you have no reason for concern.”

The ambassador put his fork down. “What man?”

“Oh, George something or other. Let me think for a minute and maybe his last name will come to me. I’m just terrible with names.”

“What time was he here?”

“Before eight.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Oh, medium height, dark, very handsome. He looked Native American.”

“General Marshall, did you have someone in here at that hour?” Froning asked.

“We had no one here until ten hundred hours. And no one fitting that description.”

The ambassador looked at Frances. “Did the man specifically say he was with the government? That he was here to inspect the security?”

“Yes, sir, he did. Said he was with the FBI. He sure gave the place a good going over, too.”

Froning’s expression hardened. “You’re positive he said he was with the FBI?”

“FBI … yes, that’s what he said.”

“And you can’t recall his name?”

“No. Sorry.”

Froning stood and said, “General, why don’t you have a couple of your men come in and take a look around? Just to be on the safe side.”

“I think that’s a good idea.” General Marshall rose and walked outside. He returned seconds later, followed by two military policemen.

Frances looked at the grandfather clock: 12:28. Now she was more than worried; she was anxious, tired, frazzled. What she wanted most at this point was for the ambassador and his entourage to finish up and move on. This business of playing host to government leaders and foreign big wigs was for someone else. Her blood pressure was high enough without the added stress and strain that went hand in hand with entertaining a group like this.

One of the MPs asked Frances to show him the way to the alley out back. She forced a weary smile and led him through the kitchen. While he made his way outside, Frances went into the walk-in freezer to get some steaks that needed thawing for tonight’s customers. The coolness of the freezer felt good. Finding an upturned Coke case, she pulled it beneath her and sat down, deciding her frazzled nerves needed a rest and the goings on out in the restaurant could proceed for a few minutes without her. She leaned back and closed her eyes.

At least, thank God, the disaster she feared had not come about.

Frances Casey couldn’t have been more wrong.

The explosion was so violent it blew Frances off the Coke case and backward into the steel wall. Fortunately for her, a stack of empty cardboard boxes served to soften the impact. As she rolled to the floor, she was acutely aware of the ringing sound in her head, a sound that intensified with each heartbeat. She was equally aware of the pain gripping her body, especially the sharper pain in her left leg and left shoulder.

Feelings are good at a time like this
, she reminded herself,
because it means everything is still alive, still functioning
. She tried to roll over but couldn’t. Lifting her head, she looked outside the freezer door. A thick cloud of black smoke casually drifted by. Frances again made an effort to stand, only to fall back against the boxes. Although the pain was becoming more and more intense, she was certain of two facts: she was going to live, and she was going to pass out. There was yet another fact, one final truth, and it filled her with great sorrow.

She was the only survivor.

The shapely redhead paused to check the hem of her skirt. During her inspection, she lifted her eyes and smiled at Collins as he entered Pete’s Bar. “Damn thing is forever coming loose,” she said.

“Need some help? I have killer hands.”

“I’m sure you do.” She motioned to an empty chair at the table. “Care for some company?”

“I’m waiting for someone. Sorry.”

“Lucky girl.” She touched his arm. “I assume it is a woman you’re waiting for?”

Collins nodded.

“You can never be too sure these days,” she said. “Oh, well, if things don’t work out, give me a buzz. Amy Brandenburg. I’m in the book. I’d love to meet you for a drink sometime.”

Yeah, me and the rest of the first infantry
, Collins thought as he watched her walk away.

“Some dish, that Amy,” Pete Daley said, slipping into a chair next to Collins. Pete, a heavyset man with a perpetual grin and dark bushy eyebrows, owned the bar. “Know what her nickname is?”

Collins shook his head.

“Target. Know why?”

“Why?”

“Because everybody takes a shot at her.” He laughed loudly. “Hell, Mick, she’s been invaded more times than France.”

“You could get sued for a line like that, Pete. Better watch your tongue. We live in PC times.”

“You know, I’m surprised you haven’t had a sample of that,” Pete said. “Big man on campus like you. How come you haven’t given her a ride?”

“Too much competition; that’s why. Besides, I’m getting too old for the chase.”

“That’s some crappy philosophy you have. If every guy adopted that line of thinking, we’d never get any nookie. We’d all be sitting at home playin’ with ourselves.”