The Waterfall (5 page)

Barbara coughed, gulping in air. “Goddamn you—”

“Tell me about Lucy.”

“I don't
know
anything. You'll have to ask her yourself. I went outlet shopping in Manchester one day. That's all.”

Lying to him was dangerous, Barbara thought, but telling the truth had to be more dangerous.

He traced the skin just under her breasts with his thumbs. He had no sexual interest in her. His focus on his mission was total. He wasn't that complicated a man, Barbara thought, and she wasn't that undesirable a woman. Obviously his obsession with Jack Swift was something she needed to better understand.

His gaze was cold even as he released her. “Arnica,” he said.

She rubbed her sides. “What?”

“Rub in a little arnica oil for the bruises.”

She headed back to the bathroom. This time she didn't throw up. She washed her hands, closed the lid on the toilet and sat down. She was risking everything. She had a stimulating career, a nice apartment, a fabulous set of friends. There were men who wanted her. Good, successful men.

She didn't have to let a scummy Darren Mowery fondle her in her own living room.

After Jack had dispatched her, so politely, as if she were pathetic, she'd learned he was seeing Sidney Greenburg, a curator at the Smithsonian—fifty years old, never married, no children. Why her? Why not Barbara?

Sidney was one of Lucy's Washington friends.

I could have married Colin. I didn't have to wait for Jack.

“Barbara?”

Darren was outside the door. She didn't move.

“Here's how it's going to go down,” he said. “I'll approach Jack. I'll put the squeeze on him. He's not going to risk his own reputation or sully his dead son's reputation. He'll pay. And you'll get ten percent.”

She jumped up and tore open the door. “Ten percent! Forget it. I'll call the police right now. You'd have nothing without me.
I
had the affair with Colin.
I
have the pictures.”

“You won't call the police,” Darren said calmly.

“I
will.
You're threatening a United States senator.”

“Barbara. Please.” He was cold, supercilious. “If you make one wrong move once this thing gets started, I'll be there. Trust me. You won't want that.”

Her stomach turned in on itself. She clutched it in silent agony. What if Lucy went crying to Sebastian Redwing because of her harassment campaign? “Bastard.”

“Bingo. You got that one right.”

Barbara held up her chin, summoning twenty years of experience at using other people's arrogance to her own advantage. And to Jack's. “Jack couldn't survive a week in this town without me, and he knows it. When he comes to me, you'd better be far away. That's your only warning.”

“Oh, is it? Get this straight, Barbie.” Mowery leaned in close, enunciated each word clearly. “I don't care if you fucked Swift father and son at the same time. I don't care if you made up the whole goddamn thing. We're putting this show on the road, and we're doing it my way.”

Acid rose up in her throat. “I can't believe I let you touch me.”

He laughed. “And you will again, Barbie. Trust me on that.”

He swaggered back down the hall. She spat at his back, missing by yards. He laughed harder.

“Fifty percent,” she yelled.

He stopped, glanced back at her.

She was choking for air. Dear God, what had she done? “I want fifty percent of the take.”

“The take? Okay, Dick Tracy. I'll give you twenty-five percent.”

“Fifty. I deserve it.”

He winked at her. “I like you, Barbie. You got the short end of the stick with the Swifts, and you keep on fighting. Yep. I like you a lot.”

“I'm serious. I want fifty percent.”

“Barbie, maybe you should think this through.” He rocked back on his heels. “I'm not a very nice man. I expect you know that by now. My sympathy for you only goes so far.”

She hesitated. Her head was spinning. This wasn't a time for cold feet, any sign of weakness. “Twenty-five percent, then,” she said.

 

Jack Swift poured himself a second glass of wine. It was a dry apple-pear wine from a new winery in his home state. He toasted Sidney Greenburg, who was still on her first glass. “To the wines of Rhode Island.”

She laughed. “Yes, but not to this particular bottle. I love fruit wines, Jack, but this one's pure rot-gut.”

He laughed, too. “It is, isn't it? Well, I've never been much of a wine connoisseur. A good scotch—that's something I can understand.”

It was a very warm, humid, still evening. They were sitting out in the tiny brick courtyard of his Georgetown home. Rhode Island, his home state, the state he'd represented first in the House, then in the Senate, seemed far away tonight. This was where he'd raised his son, where he'd nursed his wife through her long, losing battle with cancer. They were both gone now. He'd been tempted to sell the house. He'd bought it in his early days in Washington; it'd go for a mint. He'd even debated quitting the Senate. Barbara Allen had talked him out of both. Over twenty years, she'd saved him from many a precipitous move.

“I don't know what to do, Sidney.” He stared at the pale wine. He and Sidney had been discussing Barbara Allen most of the evening. “She's been with me since she was a college intern.”

“You're not going to do anything.”

“I can't just pretend—”

“Yes, you can, and you'll be doing her a favor if you do.”

Sidney set her glass on the garden table. That she had such affection for him was a constant source of amazement. He was an old widower, a gray-haired, paunchy United States senator who wasn't eaten up with his own self-importance. She was a striking woman, with very dark eyes and dark hair liberally streaked with gray. She wore little makeup, and she complained about carrying more weight than she liked around her hips and thighs; Jack hadn't noticed. She was intelligent, kind, experienced and self-assured, comfortable in her own skin. She'd worked with Lucy's parents at the Smithsonian and had known Lucy since she was a little girl, long before Lucy had met Colin.

“Listen to me, Jack,” she said. “Barbara is not a pathetic woman. You are not to feel sorry for her because she's forty and unmarried. If she's given herself to her job to the exclusion of her personal life, that was her choice. Allow her the dignity of having made that choice. And don't assume just because she doesn't have a husband and children, she must not have a full life.”

“I haven't! I wouldn't—”

“Of course, you would. People do it all the time.” She smiled, taking any edge off her words. “If Barbara Allen's feeling a little goofy and off-center right now, accept it at face value and give her a chance to get over it.”

Jack sighed. “She practically threw herself at me.”

“And I suppose you've never had a
married
woman throw herself at you?”

“Well…”

“Come on, Jack. If Barbara's nuts unmarried, she'd be nuts married.”

He held back a smile. As educated and refined as Sidney was, she did know how to cut to the chase. “I didn't say she was nuts.”

“That's my point exactly.” Her eyes shone, and she spoke with conviction, laughing at his frown. “You are a very dense man for someone who has to go before the people for votes. Jack, the woman made a pass at you. It's been three years since Colin's death, five years since Eleanor's death. You've only just begun dating again. I see her actions as—” She shrugged. “Perfectly normal.”

He drank more of his wine. The damn stuff all tasted the same to him, whether it was made from pears, apples or grapes. “Maybe so.”

“But?”

“I don't know.”

“The unmarried forty-year-old in the office makes people nervous. They never know if she's a little dotty, living in squalor with twenty-five cats.”

“That's archaic, Sidney.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “It's true. If Barbara were married and made a pass at you, you'd be flattered. You wouldn't sit here squirming over what to do. You'd think she was a normal, healthy woman.” She grabbed up his hand. “Jack, I've
been
there.”

“No one could ever think you were off your gourd.”

She smiled. “I have two cats. I've been known to feed them off the china.”

He saw the twinkle in her eye and laughed. That was what he treasured about Sidney most of all. She made him laugh. She was quick-witted, self-deprecating, irreverent. She didn't take her job, herself, or life inside the Beltway too seriously.

But Jack couldn't shake a lingering sense of uneasiness. “There's still something about Barbara.”

“Then there's something about Barbara. Period.”

“I see what you're saying—”

“Finally!” Sidney fell back against her chair, as if his denseness had exhausted her. “Now, can we change the subject?”

He smiled. “Gladly.”

She gave him an impish grin. “Let's talk about my cats.”

Sidney didn't stay the night. They both had unusual Saturday meetings, but Jack knew that really wasn't the issue. “I'm just not ready to hang my panty hose in a senator's bathroom,” she said breezily, kissing him good-night.

He remembered her counsel the next morning when he arrived in his office at eight and Barbara Allen, as ever, was at her desk. Before he could say a word, she gave him a bright smile. “Good morning, Senator.”

“Good morning, Barbara. I thought you were still on vacation.”

She waved a hand. “It was a few days off, not a vacation. I always planned to be back for this meeting. I know it's important.”

He smiled. “Well, then, how were your few days off?”

“Perfect,” she said. “Just what I needed.”

She flipped around in her chair and tapped a few keys on her computer. She looked great, Jack thought—relaxed, polished, professional, with none of the wild desperation that had made them both so uncomfortable the week before.

Relief washed over him. A little time away had done the trick. He would follow Sidney's advice and pretend nothing had happened. It wasn't just a question of doing Barbara a favor—he was doing himself a favor, too. He needed her efficiency, knowledge and competence, her long years of experience.

He headed into his private office. Thank God, she was back to her old self.

“B
astian Redwing saved Daddy's life?”

Madison sighed at her brother with exaggerated patience. “It's not
Bastian.
It's
Sebastian.
And he saved Dad
and
Grandpa. Some other guy saved the president.”

J.T. frowned. “How come I don't remember?”

“Because you weren't born.”

“Madison doesn't remember, either,” Lucy said. “It happened before your dad and I were married.”

“I read the articles,” Madison reminded her mother.

J.T. kicked the back of her seat. They'd rented a car when they'd arrived in Jackson yesterday, and this morning Lucy had dutifully met with the western guides, who were wonderful and all but told her outright she had no business trying to expand out west. No surprise there.

Afterwards, she'd almost talked herself out of following her hotel desk clerk's directions to see Sebastian. Almost. She still had time to turn around and go back to Jackson.

“Was it an assassination attempt?” J.T. asked. “Tell me!”

Madison was horrified. “Mom, how does he know something like ‘assassination attempt'? That shouldn't be in a twelve-year-old's vocabulary.”

J.T. snorted from the back seat. “Oh, yeah? Then how am I supposed to know about Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther King? And President Kennedy and Julius Caesar?”

“Julius Caesar?” Madison swung around at him. “You don't know anything about Julius Caesar.”

“He was stabbed in the back.”

“You're sick.”

“
You're
sick.”

Lucy gripped the steering wheel. She was on a stretch of clear, straight road, trying to enjoy the breathtaking Wyoming scenery. The mountains surrounding the long, narrow valley, she thought, were incredible. She'd pointed out the different vegetation to Madison and J.T., explained about the altitude, the dry air. But they wanted to discuss Sebastian Redwing and how he'd saved their father's life.

Lucy gave up and told the story. “The president was giving a speech in Newport, Rhode Island. Someone got in with a gun and started firing. Sebastian knocked Grandpa and Dad to the floor, while the man he worked for at the time, Darren Mowery, tackled the shooter.”

“Was anyone hurt?” J.T. asked.

“Sebastian spotted a second shooter, who'd actually helped the other guy get inside. Sebastian, your dad and another man, Plato Rabedeneira, a parachute rescue jumper who was being honored, went after him. The man shot Plato in the shoulder, but it wasn't serious.”

“What happened to the shooter?”

Lucy hesitated. “Sebastian killed him.”

“Sebastian had a gun? Why?” J.T. was into the story now. “What was he doing there?”

How to explain Sebastian Redwing? All J.T. knew about him was that he'd sold them their house. Lucy slowed the car. “Sebastian was a security consultant. He was very young—he and Darren Mowery, his boss, were after the shooter for some other reason. They had no idea they'd get mixed up in an attempt to assassinate the president of the United States.”

“Dad, Plato and Sebastian all became friends,” Madison added. “Sebastian was the best man at Mom and Dad's wedding.”

J.T. was hopelessly confused. “I don't get it.”

His sister moaned. “What is there to ‘get'?”

“Sebastian has his own company now, J.T.,” Lucy said. “Redwing Associates. It's based here in Wyoming. He and Plato and Dad weren't able to see as much of each other as they'd have liked.”

That seemed to satisfy her son.

“At least Sebastian had the sense to get out of Vermont,” Madison said.

They came to a cluster of log buildings set in a grassy, rolling meadow. No marker announced this was the base and main training facility for Redwing Associates, an international investigative and security firm with clients ranging from business executives and government officials to high-profile entertainers and sports figures. Many came here, to Wyoming, to learn for themselves how to assess, prevent and manage the risks they faced, whether it was kidnapping, assassination, corporate espionage, disgruntled ex-employees, obsessed fans or computer fraud.

Security was subtle but not unnoticeable. When Lucy came to the end of the long, winding driveway, a man in casual western attire introduced himself. “I'm Jim Charger, Mrs. Swift. I'll take care of your car. Mr. Rabedeneira is expecting you.”

She tried to smile. “Plato Rabedeneira?”

Jim Charger didn't return her smile. “That's right, ma'am.”

What was Plato doing here? And why was he expecting her? Lucy fought off a rush of uneasiness. “Well, I guess you guys really are that good, aren't you?”

Still no smile. “Your children can stay out here with me or go in with you. Your choice.”

“They'll go with me.”

He motioned for her to go into the sprawling main house, its rustic log construction deceiving. This was no ordinary ranch house. No expense had been spared in its furnishings of wood, leather and earth-colored fabrics. The views were astounding. Not one square inch of it reminded her of Sebastian's roots in southern Vermont.

Plato joined her in the living room, in front of a massive stone fireplace. He took both her hands and kissed her on the cheek. “Hello, Lucy. I heard you were in the area.”

“You must have spies on every corner.”

“Not
every
corner.”

He laughed, dropping her hands. He was a dark-haired, dark-eyed, intensely handsome man who'd worked his way out of a very tough Providence neighborhood into a very tough profession, where he'd excelled. He'd helped his mother, who'd raised him alone, earn her college degree; she was now a professor at a community college, and one of Jack Swift's constituents.

Colin, Lucy thought, had never been tempted to jump out of a helicopter into the teeth of a storm to rescue fishermen and yachters. He had been content with his work at the State Department and testing himself on the tennis court—which had killed him.

“When did you start working for Redwing Associates?” Lucy asked.

“I was injured in a rescue jump eighteen months ago. When I woke up from surgery, my summons from Sebastian was waiting for me.” He turned to Madison and J.T., both obviously enthralled. “Well, you two have grown up. It's great to see you.”

He was so charming, Lucy thought. She would feel safe if she had to dangle from a rescue helicopter over churning seas with him. Colin had been well-mannered and kind, a man people tended to like automatically. Sebastian Redwing, she thought, was none of the above. He wasn't charming, well-mannered, kind or likeable. He wouldn't care about making her or anyone else feel safe. That, he would say, was up to them. He was just very, very good at what he did.

“You kids want a grand tour of the place?” Plato asked. “Go back out front. Tell Mr. Charger I'd like him to show you around.”

The prospect of a tour clearly excited J.T. more than it did Madison, who seemed transfixed by her father's ultra-fit, very good-looking friend. But she went along with her brother, and Lucy suddenly felt self-conscious, even a little foolish. Redwing Associates dealt with real threats and real dangers. Kidnapping, extortion, terrorist attacks. Not late-night hang-ups and bullets dropped through an open car window.

“You're looking well, Lucy,” Plato said, eyeing her.

“Thanks.”

“How's Vermont?”

“Great—I have my own adventure travel company. It's doing surprisingly well for a relatively new company.”

“I don't get adventure travel, I'll admit.”

She smiled. “That's because you've had to clean up after too many adventures gone wrong. Safety is our first priority, you'll be glad to know.”

He moved to the leather chair, and she noticed his slight limp. It would never do in the demanding world he'd left, and at Redwing Associates, it would keep him behind a desk.

He dropped onto the couch, his expression turning serious. “You want to tell me why you're here?”

“I had business in Jackson. I just thought I'd stop in and say hello.”

“You didn't know I'd be here,” he pointed out.

“I know, but Sebastian—”

“Lucy. Come on. Since when would you or anyone else make a special trip to say hello to Sebastian?”

She sat on the edge of a wood-armed chair, thinking it would be nice if she could just sit here and visit with an old friend, reminisce about the past, forget the bullet hole in her dining room wall.

Of course, Plato would see through her halfhearted story. Cold feet were probably common in both his past and current work.

At least Plato had sent flowers and written a card when Colin died. He couldn't get away for the funeral, he said, but if she ever needed anything, she had only to let him know. He'd be there. Colin had trusted him, too. But, possibly because of the different nature of their work—or their personalities—it was Sebastian he'd made her promise to go to if she ever needed help.

“Has he changed?” she asked.

“That depends on your point of view. Look,” Plato said, “why don't you tell me what's going on. Then we can figure out what to do about it.”

Meaning, whether she needed to bring it to Sebastian's attention.

Lucy twisted her hands together. At home, in her business, she was at ease, confident, capable. This was foreign ground for her. Sebastian Redwing and Plato Rabedeneira had been her husband's friends. She and Colin had fallen in love so fast, marrying within two months of their first date. Madison had come along the next year. Then J.T. And then Colin was gone.

She really didn't know Plato
or
Sebastian.

“Lucy?”

“It's silly. I'm being silly, and I know it. So please feel free to pat me on the head and send me back to Vermont.” She leveled her eyes on him. “Trust me, you'd be doing me a favor.”

“Well, before I do any head-patting, why don't you tell me what's going on first. Okay?”

She nodded, gulped in a breath and told him everything. She kept her tone unemotional and objective, and left out nothing except her own reactions, the palpable sense of fear, the nausea.

When she finished, she managed another smile. “You see? Pure silliness.”

Plato rose stiffly, his limp more noticeable as he walked to the massive stone fireplace. He looked back at her, his dark eyes serious. “You won't go to the local police?”

“If you're convinced it's the best thing to do, I'll consider it. But they'll call Jack.”

He nodded. “That might not be such a bad idea.”

“These incidents—whatever they are—have nothing to do with him.”

“Maybe not. The point is, you don't know why they're happening.”

Lucy ran a hand through her hair. She felt light-headed, a little sick to her stomach. Jet lag, the dry air and the altitude were all taking their toll. So was reliving the events of the past week.

“Either there's no connection at all between these incidents,” she said, “or someone's just trying to get under my skin. If I go to the police, it proves they succeeded.”

“And if they don't get the desired reaction from you, the incidents could escalate.”

“Damn.” She sank back against the couch and kicked out her legs. “I don't have a clue what the ‘desired reaction' is. Coming out here? Fine, the bastard can declare victory and get out of my life. Running screaming into the night? Forget it.” She jumped to her feet. “I won't fall apart for anyone.”

“What does your gut tell you?” His voice was quiet, soothing. Plato was very good at caring.

“I don't
know.
” Lucy paced on the thick, dark carpet. “Plato, I'm not a normal person. I'm the widowed daughter-in-law of a United States senator. You know damn well Jack will send in the Capitol Police.”

“Lucy—”

“I have a business to tend. I have kids to raise. Damn it, I'm all Madison and J.T. have. I'm not going to put myself in undue danger, but I won't—Plato, if I can possibly avoid it, I'd rather not have Jack and a bunch of feds mucking around in my life.”

Plato placed an arm around her shoulders. “It's okay. I understand. Look, I have to be in Frankfurt this next week—”

“I wasn't hinting you should drop everything and come to my rescue. I just wanted an expert opinion.” She smiled a little. “It felt good to tell someone.”

He smiled back, but shook his head, giving her upper arm a gentle squeeze. “You didn't come for
my
expert opinion.”

“I would have if I'd known you were here. I'd much rather tell my troubles to you than Sebastian.”