The Simple Truth (55 page)

“I’m fine. This has just been the day from hell.”

“I know, honey, I know,”
he said soothingly. He looked down at his cold meal.
“I guess our relaxing evening just went out the window.”

“What did you tell her?”

“Tell her? I told her I’d check. And that I’d have somebody get back to her. That’s what I was doing, calling my office. I guess they can check on the computer or something.”

“Where is Sara?”

“At home, waiting for the answer to her question.”
Elizabeth got up, her face pale.

“Beth, are you all right?”

“A headache just hit me. I need some aspirin.”

“I can get it for you.”

“No, that’s all right. Finish your dinner. Then maybe we can finally relax.”

A worried-looking Jordan Knight watched his wife go down the hallway. Elizabeth Knight did indeed get some aspirin, since she did have a very real headache. Then she slipped down the hallway to her bedroom, picked up the phone and dialed a number.

“Hello,”
the voice said.

“Sara Evans just called. She asked Jordan a question.”

“What was the question?”

“She wanted to know if you had ever been in the Army.”

Warren McKenna loosened his tie and took a sip of water from the glass on his desk. He had just returned from the meeting at the Court.
“And what did he tell her?”

“That he’d check and get back to her.”
Elizabeth did her best to fight back the tears.

McKenna nodded to himself.
“Where is she?”

“She told Jordan she was at home.”

“And John Fiske?”

“I don’t know. Apparently she didn’t say.”

McKenna grabbed his coat.
“Thanks for the information, Justice Knight. It might prove to be even more valuable than one of your opinions.”

Elizabeth Knight slowly hung up the receiver and then picked it up again. She couldn’t leave it like this. She dialed Information and got the number. The call was answered.
“Detective Chandler, please. Tell him it’s Elizabeth Knight and it’s urgent.”

Chandler came on the line.
“What can I do for you, Justice Knight?”

“Detective Chandler, please don’t ask me how I know, but you have to get to Sara Evans’s house. I think she’s in grave danger. Please hurry.”

Chandler didn’t waste time asking questions. He raced out of his office without even hanging up the phone.

Elizabeth Knight slowly put down the receiver. She had thought her work at the Court was pressure-filled, but this … She knew that no matter how this turned out, her life was going to be devastated. For her, there was no way out. How ironic, she thought, that justice would end up destroying her.

* * *

The figure was outfitted in dark clothing, a ski mask pulled over his face. He had followed Sara down to Richmond and then trailed her and Fiske and the FBI agents back to Washington. He was very grateful that she had lost the FBI agents; it would make his job much easier. Crouching down, he made his way over to the car and opened the driver’s-side door. The dome light came on when he did so, and he quickly twisted the control to dim it. He looked at the windows of the house. He saw Sara pass by once, but she didn’t look outside. He pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and swept the beam around the car’s interior. He saw the papers on the floorboard, glanced at them and noted the encircled name. He gathered up the files and put them in a knapsack he was carrying. He pulled a pistol from his holster and attached a silencer to the muzzle. Looking up at the house again, he saw no sign of Sara this time. But she was in there. Alone. He put out the light and headed toward the house.

* * *

Sara had been nervously pacing the kitchen, constantly checking her watch and waiting for a phone call from Jordan Knight’s office. She stepped out onto the rear deck and watched as a jet slid past under the canopy of dark clouds. Then she looked down at her sailboat as it nudged against the rubber tires that were affixed to the dock to act as buffers between the smooth fiberglass and the rough wood. She had to smile as she thought back to the events of last night. The smile disappeared as she recalled what she and Fiske had discussed after their encounter at the nursing home. She pressed her bare toes against the damp wood, and took a moment to breathe in the soothing smells of the wet, rustic surroundings.

She went inside and up the stairs, stopping at the doorway of her bedroom and looking inside. The bed was still unmade. She sat down on the mattress and picked up one edge of the sheet as she recalled their lovemaking. She thought of how Fiske had pulled his T-shirt back down. The scar went from navel to neck, Ed had told her. As if it could ever actually make a difference to her. And yet Fiske obviously believed it could.

She listened as another jet passed overhead and then the complete silence returned in its wake, as though all sound had disappeared into a Pratt & Whitney-made vacuum. The silence so profound she could clearly hear the side door of the cottage open. She jumped up and raced to the stairs.
“John?”
There was no answer, and when the downstairs light went out, a shiver of fear hit her spine. She ran into her bedroom, shut and locked the door. Her chest heaving, her own pulse bursting in her eardrums, she looked around desperately for a weapon, because there was no way to escape. The window was small and even if she could manage to wriggle through, the grade of the land was such that the room was two stories off the ground, with a concrete sidewalk down below — and breaking both her legs didn’t seem like a good idea.

Her sense of desperation turned to panic when the sounds of the footsteps reached her. She now cursed herself for not having a phone in the bedroom. She held her breath as she saw the doorknob slowly turn until the lock halted the movement, but both the lock and the door were very old. As something hit the door with a solid blow, she instinctively jumped back, a small scream escaping her lips. She scanned the room before her gaze settled on the four-poster bed. She raced over and grabbed one of the pineapple-shaped finials off one of the bedposts. Thank God she had never gotten around to having the bed actually canopied. The finial was solid wood and weighed at least a pound.

She held it in one upraised hand and stepped quickly over to the door. It shook as another blow landed, the lock bending under the force of it; the doorframe started to splinter. After that impact she reached over, quietly unlocked the door and then stood back. With the door unbolted, the next blow sent it and the man flying into the room. Sara’s arm came down swiftly and the finial hit flesh. She raced through the doorway and down the hallway. The man she had struck lay on the floor holding his shoulder and moaning.

Sara knew that Rayfield and Tremaine were dead. Then the man she had just hit was either Dellasandro or — she shuddered at the thought of the man being in her home — Warren McKenna. She navigated the stairs in two jumps, grabbed her car keys off the table and threw open the door on her way to the car. She let out a shriek of terror.

The second man stared back at her, calmly, coolly. As he stepped forward, Leo Dellasandro pointed a pistol directly at her. The man in black came racing down the stairs holding his shoulder, his gun trained on her as well. Dellasandro closed the door. Sara looked at the man behind her. It must be McKenna. But then her expression changed. This man wasn’t nearly big enough to be the FBI agent.

The ski mask came off and Richard Perkins glared at her. Then he smiled at her obvious astonishment and pulled some papers from his knapsack.
“You must have overlooked my name on the Fort Plessy service roster, Sara. How sloppy of you.”

She stared at him angrily.
“The marshal of the Supreme Court and the chief of its police, parties to a despicable crime.”

“Harms killed that girl, not me,”
Dellasandro said.

“Have you made yourself believe that, Leo? You killed her, not Rufus, just as sure as if your hands were around her neck.”

Dellasandro’s face turned ugly.
“That sonofabitch. If I had my way I would’ve pumped him full of lead instead of some damn drug. He was a disgrace to the uniform.”

“He was dyslexic,”
Sara screamed at him.
“He didn’t follow orders because he couldn’t understand them, you idiot. You destroyed his life and that girl’s for nothing.”

A smirk appeared on Dellasandro’s face.
“I don’t see it that way. Not at all. He got what he deserved.”

“How’s the face, Leo? John really popped you. He knows everything, of course.”

“We’ll just have to visit him too.”

“You, Vic Tremaine and Frank Rayfield?”

“You’re damn right,”
Dellasandro said with a sneer.

“Your buddies are dead.”
Sara’s smile emerged as Dellasandro’s faded.
“They ambushed Rufus and his brother, but just like last time they couldn’t finish the job,”
she added tauntingly.

“Then I hope I get the chance to do it for them.”

Sara stared him up and down and finally shook her head in disgust.
“Tell me something, Leo. How did vermin like you ever get to be a police chief of anything?”

He slapped her across the face, and would have hit her again if Perkins hadn’t stopped him.
“We don’t have time for this crap, Leo.”
He gripped Sara by the shoulder. That’s when the phone rang.

Perkins looked at Dellasandro.
“Fiske?”
He looked again at Sara.
“Fiske is with Harms, isn’t he? That’s why you had to split up, isn’t it?”
Sara looked away as the phone rang again. Perkins stuck his pistol under her chin and his finger tightened on the trigger.
“I’ll ask you one more time. Is Fiske with Rufus Harms?”
He pushed the gun harder against her skin.
“In two seconds your head will disappear, I swear to God. Answer me!”

“Yes! Yes, he’s with him,”
she said in a strangled voice as the metal pushed against her windpipe.

He shoved her to the phone.
“Answer it. If it’s Fiske, pick a place to meet. Make it somewhere around here, but private. Tell him you’ve found some more information. You say anything to warn him, you’re dead.”
She hesitated.
“Do it! Or die!”
Sara could see now that the mild-mannered Perkins was actually the more dangerous of her two captors. She slowly picked up the phone. Perkins stood next to her listening, his gun pressed against her temple. She took a quick breath to try to calm herself.

“Hello?”

“Sara?”
It was Fiske.

“I’ve been trying to reach you everywhere.”

“I’m with Rufus.”

Perkins pushed the gun against her head as he listened.
“Where are you?”
she asked.

“We’re halfway to D.C. At a rest stop.”

“What’s your plan?”

“I think it’s time we went to Chandler. Rufus and I have talked it over.”

Perkins shook his head and pointed at the phone.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, John.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve … I’ve found out some things that you need to know first. Before you go to Chandler.”

“Like what?”

“I can’t tell you over the phone. It could be bugged.”

“Come on, I kind of doubt that, Sara.”

“Look, I tell you what, give me the number where you’re at and I’ll call you from the car.”
She looked over at Perkins.
“We can arrange to meet someplace. Then we can go to Chandler. The FBI has the tag number of the car you’re in. You have to get rid of it anyway.”

He gave her the number and she wrote it down on a pad by the phone and ripped off the top sheet.

“Are you sure you can’t tell me over the phone?”

“I talked to your friend at the JAG,”
Sara said, whispering a silent prayer for what she was about to say next. If Fiske reacted the wrong way, she was dead. She had to trust him.
“Darnell Jackson told me all about the PCP testing.”

Fiske stiffened and looked over at Rufus, who sat in the car at the darkened rest stop.
Darnell Jackson.
He answered quickly.
“Darnell’s never let me down before.”

Sara let out an inaudible breath.
“I’ll call you back in five minutes.”
She hung up and looked at the two men.

Perkins grinned malevolently.
“Good job, Sara. Now let’s go see your friends.”

After Sara called him back with the meeting place, Fiske made one more phone call. The news was not good. Not good at all. Then he got in the car and looked at Harms.
“He’s got Sara.”

“Who’s got her?”
Harms asked.

“Your old buddy. Dellasandro. He’s the only one left.”

“What you talking about, the only one left?”

“Rayfield and Tremaine are dead. That leaves Dellasandro. Sara tipped me off without him catching on — ”
Fiske stopped and stared at Rufus, who was staring back at him quizzically. Fiske spoke haltingly.
“Rufus, how many men were in the stockade that night?”

“Five.”

Fiske slumped back.
“I only know about the three I just mentioned. Who are the other two?”

“Perkins. Dick Perkins.”

Fiske thought he might be sick.
“Richard Perkins is the marshal of the Supreme Court.”

“I ain’t seen him since that night and damn glad of it. Except for Tremaine, he was the worst of the bunch. He’d come in and beat me with his damn baton. He’s the one who shot me up with the PCP.”

“And the fifth man?”

“Didn’t know him. Never seen him before.”

“That’s okay. I think I know who it is.”
Sara had not told him about finding the man’s name on Fort Plessy’s personnel roster, but Fiske had finally figured it out himself. Warren McKenna’s image appeared starkly in his thoughts. That’s why the FBI agent was trying to frame him. It all made sense. Fiske started up the car.