just want to talk to her, and to see her. That was all. He kept telling
himself that.
He went to the bathroom, plunged his head into a sink of cold water,
grabbed a beer and went up to the rooftop pool and sat there in the
darkness, watching the planes as they made their approach up the Potomac
into National. The twin bright, red lights of the Washington Monument
blinked consolingly at him. Eight stories down the streets were quiet
except for the occasional police or ambulance siren.
Jack looked at the calm surface of the pool, put his foot in the now
cool water and watched as it rippled across. He drank his beer, went
downstairs and fell asleep in a chair in the living room, the TV droning
in front of him. He did not hear the phone ring, no message was left.
Almost one thousand miles away, Luther Whitney hung up the phone and
smoked his first cigarette in over thirty years.
THE FEDERAL EXPRESS TRUCK PULLED SLOWLY DOWN THE isolated country road,
the driver scanning the rusty and leaning mailboxes for the correct
address. He had never made a delivery out here. His truck seemed to ride
ditch to ditch on the narrow road.
He pulled into the driveway of the last house and started to back out.
He just happened to look over and saw the address on the small piece of
wood beside the door. He shook his head and smiled. Sometimes it was
just luck.
e weathered aluminum window awnings, popular about twenty years before
the driver had been born, sagged down, as if they were tired and just
wanted to rest.
The elderly woman who answered the door was dressed in a pullover
flowered dress, a thick sweater wrapped around her shoulders. Her thick
red ankles told of poor circulation and probably a host of other
ailments. She seemed surprised by the delivery, but readily signed for
it.
The driver glanced at the signature on his pad: Edwina Broome. Then he
got in his truck and left. She watched him leave before shutting the
door.
THE wALiuE-TALKm CRACKLED.
Fred Barnes had been doing this job for seven years now.
Driving around the neighborhoods of the rich, seeing the big houses,
manicured grounds, the occasional expensive car with its mannequinlike
occupants coming down the perfect asphalt drive and through the massive
gates. He had never been inside any of the homes he was paid to guard,
and never expected to be.
He looked up at the imposing structure. Four to five million dollars, he
surmised. More money than he could make in five lifetimes. Sometimes it
just didn’t seem right.
He checked in on his walkie-talkie. He would take a look around the
place. He didn’t exactly know what was going on.
Only that the owner had called and requested a patrol car check.
The cold air in his face made Barnes think about a hot cup of coffee and
a danish, to be followed by eight hours of sleep until he had to venture
out again in his Saturn for yet another night of protecting the
possessions of the wealthy. The pay wasn’t all that bad, although the
benefits sucked. His wife worked full-time too, and with three kids,
their combined incomes were barely enough. But then everybody had it
tough.
He looked at the five-car garage in back, the pool and the tennis
courts. Well, maybe not everybody.
As he rounded the corner, he saw the dangling rope and thoughts of
coffee and a creamy danish disappeared. He crouched down, his hand
flying to his sidearm. He grabbed his mike and reported in, his voice
cracking embarrassingly.
The real police would be here in minutes. He could wait for them or
investigate himself. For eight singles an hour he decided to stay right
where he was.
Barnes’s supervisor arrived first in the stark white station wagon with
the company’s logo on the door panel. Thirty seconds later the first of
five patrol cars pulled down the asphalt drive until they were stacked
like a waiting train in front of the house.
The window was covered by two officers. It was probable that the perps