Collateral Damage (13 page)

“Well, shit, it took you long enough to spit it out. C’mon out to the kitchen and make the rest of my night miserable. What’d you do to your hair? You look…”

“Like shit?” Lizzie reached up and yanked off the chestnut-brown wig. Her crop of silvery hair fell in tight ringlets to her shoulders. She shook it loose, then scratched at her head. “I was in disguise tonight.”

“You’re gonna tell me why, right? And, no, I didn’t know it was raining outside. Not that I really care.”

“I had a meeting at a coffee joint in southwest Washington with Martine Connor and Pamela Lock. You want to hear the details?”

Jack popped two bottles of Budweiser and handed one to Lizzie. When she looked at him questioningly, he said, “Dishwasher’s on the fritz. I hate doing dishes, so drink it out of the bottle. If it’s good enough for me it’s good enough for you. Spit it out, Counselor.”

“Neither one knew that the RNC’s donor list was heisted. They thought the RNC had lifted theirs. I clued them in. By the way, they called the meeting. All three of us agreed it looks like some kind of setup. As you know, I did legal work for both Martine and Pam for years. I think it’s safe to say we’re friends. I trust them, and they trust me. The reason for the meet was to ask me to get in touch with the vigilantes because they want to hire them to get to the bottom of this mess. Before you chew my head off, both of them put two and two together and know we’re all in this up to our eyebrows. They’re women, they never said a word nor will they say anything in the future. I let them both know, friends or not, I’d go after both of them if word ever leaks out. We made a deal, Jack.”

Jack cringed. “What kind of deal, Lizzie?”

“What kind do you think, Jack? The only kind of deal I make is to benefit my client or, in this case, clients. The vigilantes are my clients. Martine gave me her word that she’d grant them a full pardon if she gets in the White House. Here,” she said, tossing a cassette tape across the table, “I got it on record. Not that I don’t trust her, because I do, but I always cover my ass, you know that. Take it to your office and keep it secure. Make some copies just to be on the safe side. Alarm system or not, my office can always be broken into, as we well know. The courthouse, now, ain’t no one gonna break in there. And, no, neither Martine nor Pam knew I was taping them. I left plenty of room at the beginning of the tape to add a few sentences. I’m not a novice at this, Jack. Hey, do you have any munchies, chips or something?”

Jack looked disgusted. “I don’t eat that crap. You want an apple or a banana?”

Lizzie sighed. “No. I’ll hit up a fast-food place on the way home and get some French fries. Tell Charles I need two of those special phones for Martine and Pam so they can communicate with me. I won’t take no for an answer.”

Jack slugged back the rest of his beer and then plunked the bottle down on the table. Lizzie did the same thing and nodded that she’d take a second beer. Jack uncapped two fresh bottles and handed one over to her. “What did you have to promise, Lizzie?”

“The vigilantes’ help. And I told them about Annie and Myra organizing a fund-raising event in New York at the Waldorf-Astoria. Ten million bucks, if Myra and Annie can pull it off, will buy a lot of television spots in key primary states. A few more events like that will almost guarantee her getting the nomination and walking into the Oval Office.”

Jack’s head was swimming with the possibilities he was hearing. A full presidential pardon meant Nikki and the others could come back, and they could all lead normal lives. He and Nikki could get married and maybe have some kids. They’d get a couple of dogs and live happily ever after. The naked desire in his eyes was almost more than Lizzie could bear when he said, “Tell me the truth, what are the chances of that really happening?”

“As good as it’s going to get. I’ll make it happen, Jack. Trust me, okay? I have friends.”

Jack leaned back in his chair as he contemplated Lizzie’s promise. For some ungodly reason, he believed her. He felt so mellow, so relaxed he almost fell off his chair. “How come you aren’t tied down with some guy? You should be married by now. What the hell are you waiting for, Lizzie? You want to be an old maid?”

Jesus, did I just say that?
At the stricken look on Lizzie’s face he knew the four beers he’d had prior to her arrival and the two since then were loosening his tongue.

“Hey, forget I said that, okay? Your personal life is none of my business. I’m sorry, Lizzie. I had too many beers this evening.”

Lizzie shrugged as she got up to leave. Then she sat back down and leaned across the table to hold Jack’s gaze with her own. She started to talk and didn’t blink once, to Jack’s amazement.

“Sometimes, Jack, a person is only capable of loving once. I’m one of those people. I had a relationship during my first year of law school. His name was Eric. He was the reason I got up in the morning. I loved him more than anything in the world. I couldn’t see straight. He was all I thought about from morning till night. I almost flunked out that first year.

“Eric was the kindest, the most gentle man that ever walked the earth. He was graduating that year first in his class. He had almost every law firm in the country vying for his services. All he had to do was pick one, and he was literally guaranteed seven figures a year. That was just to start. The signing bonuses they promised were out of this world.

“What I didn’t know at the time was Eric’s family background. He always kind of brushed it all away and never went into any detail. Mother died when he was in high school. Two sisters who lived in upstate New York. Three nieces, two nephews. Father retired. That was all I knew. He never went home. Never got phone calls or mail from them—that I knew of, anyway. I thought maybe there was friction, but it wasn’t my business. I was so wrapped up in
us,
I didn’t care about
them.
Oh, Eric and I had such plans. Such wonderful plans. We were going to have the perfect life. All I wanted was to have his kids. That’s all he wanted, too.

“Graduation night we went to a party at a restaurant. By the way, no one from his family showed up for his graduation. Even then I didn’t think it all that strange. There were eight of us, four couples who palled around that first year. We were drinking cheap champagne and eating glorious Italian food. I got up to go to the ladies’ room when suddenly I heard gunfire. Tipsy as I was, I knew that sound when I heard it. I went into one of the stalls and stood on the seat so no one would see me. It was a slaughter, pure and simple. All the people in the restaurant, the owners, the help. It was in the papers for weeks and months. The police found me a long time later.

“They stuck me in a hospital, and I had a breakdown. It took almost two years before I could function normally. I finished school, first in my class, thank you very much. And, as they say, the rest is history.”

Jack watched as Lizzie swiped at the tears dripping down her cheeks.

Jack bolted upright. He was stone-cold sober now. “That’s not the end of it, is it, Lizzie? I remember now. You took the family on, one by one. The name was Savarone, right? That’s how you made your name. You took them on, and you fucking well won. That whole posse is still behind bars without the possibility of parole.”

“It’s all over, Jack, but, yeah, I took them on, and I won. His own father had Eric killed. Do you believe that? I couldn’t wrap my mind around that. Eric wouldn’t work for the family. He divorced himself from them. The father lost face, or whatever it is that happens to people like that. They took Eric’s life because he didn’t want to be a gangster’s mouthpiece. I gotta go home now, Jack.”

“Lizzie, stay the night. It’s really raining out there, I can hear it on the windows. Georgetown floods when it rains. There’s a guest room. Clean sheets and all, your own bathroom. You’re too emotional to drive in weather like this.”

“Gee, Jack, I didn’t know you cared.”

Hearing the sarcasm, Jack grinned. “Now that’s the Lizzie I know and love. I’ll bet you ten bucks I know why you’re never in town on weekends.”

“Why’s that?”

“You go to the cemetery, right? You take flowers, you sit there and tell Eric about all your cases. You cry, then you come home and wait for the next weekend to do it all over again. I know because I did the same thing when my mother died. You gotta let it go, Lizzie.”

“I don’t know how, Jack. Don’t you think I’ve tried? This is my life. I’m not unhappy with it. We never had this talk, right?”

“What talk?”

“Where’d you say that guest room was?”

“Second floor, second room on the left. There’s even a toothbrush and stuff in the linen closet. Nikki knew how to keep up a house.”

“I’m gonna make it happen for you, Jack. One of us deserves the brass ring, and I’m glad it’s you.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, and a few seconds later he heard her walking up the steps.

Jack jabbed at his eyes, which were burning so badly he thought they were going to pop right out of his head.

A
blustery wind was rocketing the cable car as the Sisters climbed in to share it with assorted cardboard cartons already inside. As the car slid down its well-oiled tracks and descended the mountain, Charles looked at Murphy and Grady, and said, “They’ll be back, you know that. Now, who wants some dinner and a nice walk around the compound? I think my arm is in good shape this evening for throwing sticks, boys.”

Both dogs looked at him, and Charles knew they related to two of those words, “dinner” and “sticks.” “Okay, then let’s do it!” Charles waited, though, the dogs nipping at his pants leg until the cable car was back in its nest.

The stiff wind at his back pushed him ahead in his trek to the Big House.

Charles felt lost, but the feeling was nothing new to him. He always felt this way when his chicks left the nest to do what they did best, righting a wrong only they could make right.

Leaves fell like snow. By tomorrow all the leaves from the trees would be gone and just the rich resin scent of the pines would permeate the mountain. Winter was coming. Charles couldn’t decide if he liked that idea or not, but there was nothing he could do about it.

In the kitchen, he prepared the dogs’ dinner, crumbling bits of bacon and adding a cup of diced vegetables into the kibble mix before adding a spoonful of gravy to each bowl. When the dogs finished eating, they both sat back on their haunches to wait for their dessert, half a Pop-Tart each. Both dogs were partial to strawberry. They barked their thanks and walked away to the front porch, where they would wait for the stick-throwing part of their nightly routine.

Charles looked around at the cluttered kitchen as he prepared to clean it all up. He might have sent his chicks into a lion’s den, but he’d sent them with full stomachs. He smiled when they had all oohed and ahhed over his pot roast and potato pancakes. At the last minute, using the last of the cabbage from the garden, he’d made a cabbage casserole that all the women ignored until Kathryn, who would eat anything, sampled it and pronounced it spectacular. He looked at the empty dish and smiled. If only life’s problems could be reduced to planning, cooking, and serving meals.

An hour later, his evening ritual with the dogs complete, Charles settled himself in the command center and waited for all his operatives to check in. His eyes stayed glued to the monitor in front of him as he waited for reports to come through. While he waited, he checked off the timing sequence of his operation the way he did every evening, even when a mission wasn’t in progress. He sighed. Such was his life. But he wouldn’t change his life and what he was doing for all the money in the world.

As Charles was settling into his think mode, and his chicks were tooling along I-95, just inside the District of Columbia, in Kalorama, to be precise, Paula Woodley, a previous beneficiary of the vigilantes’ help, stared across the dining room table at her husband, or, more accurately, a caricature of her husband, the former national security advisor to the current Republican president.

Paula Woodley was an excellent cook, and the food piled on the table reflected her expertise in the kitchen. Tonight she’d prepared all of her husband’s favorite foods, knowing he wouldn’t be able to eat a bite of them. It was a real southern dinner: true southern-fried chicken, the crust golden and crunchy; She-Crab Soup; macaroni and cheese with six different cheeses; and a medley of okra, tomatoes, zucchini, and little pearl onions. She devoured everything on her plate. The little jar of baby food in front of her husband remained untouched. His eyes spewed hatred at the woman sitting across from him.

“Either you stuff that glop down your throat, or I will force-feed you, Mr. Woodley. We both know how much you like that.” Since the day the vigilantes had rescued her and reduced her husband to his current state, Paula never called the man sitting across from her anything but Mr. Woodley.

Confined to a wheelchair, Woodley was totally dependent on Paula, as dependent as a newborn baby.

As always, Paula kept up a running dialogue as she ate. Now, though, she was licking her fingers and staring at her husband. “I’m having apple pie for dessert. You used to love my apple pie. Do you remember the time you pushed my hands down on top of the hot stove because I made a peach pie instead of an apple pie?” She waved her hands to show the scars on the palms of her hands. “I made five apple pies today, Mr. Woodley—three as a housewarming present for our new neighbors. I’ll be taking them over shortly. Goodness, maybe I didn’t tell you about our new neighbors. Well, guess who is moving in almost on top of us! I see, you give up. The vigilantes, that’s who. I’m sure I can convince them to stop in for a…little visit. I hope you won’t be inhospitable and embarrass me. I’ve worked very hard to join in the neighborhood. I just love playing bridge and going to lunches while you sit here and vegetate. The neighbors never ask about you anymore. You’re a nonentity, Mr. Woodley.”

Paula carved herself a large slice of pie and slid it onto her plate. She got up, went to the kitchen, and came back with a carton of ice cream and a small silver pot of coffee. She ate slowly, savoring each bite while sipping at her coffee. “Do you remember the time you threw the scalding coffee between my breasts? You’d like to do that again, wouldn’t you? I can see it in your eyes. Oh, well, Mr. Woodley, that is not going to happen, ever again. I thought I told you to eat. If I have to count to three, Mr. Woodley, you won’t like it.”

The ugly, hateful man sitting in the wheelchair struggled to pick up the spoon next to the little jar of baby food. Paula watched the effort it cost her husband to struggle to eat. She enjoyed every moment of his discomfort. She wondered when he was going to give up the fight and die. She knew she could help things along, and no one would ever be the wiser, but seeing him suffer day after day, week after week, month after month for all the beatings he’d inflicted on her, all her broken bones, the loss of vision in her left eye, was much more appealing.

Paula kept her husband confined to one room no bigger than a compact kitchen. The room contained a hospital bed, a metal chest of sorts that held a twelve-inch black and white television set with rabbit ears, and one chair for visitors. Except no one came to visit. A home health aide came every evening at seven o’clock to bathe her husband and get him into bed at night. A different home health aide came by in the morning at eight o’clock to get him ready for the day. He was shaved, diapered, and dressed in outfits that resembled hospital scrubs to begin his day of watching the weather channel on the small set. It was the only channel that would come through with the rabbit ears.

Three times a day, Paula made a production of wheeling him out to the dining room so he could watch her eat.

Paula sighed as though it was all too much for her. She finished her dessert and coffee and set about clearing the table. She returned to the dining room with a mint she popped into Woodley’s mouth. “Your dessert, Mr. Woodley. Time to go back to your room. I’m sick of looking at you. Do you remember the time you dragged me over to the fireplace and burned my feet? I couldn’t walk for months. I had to crawl, and even then you kicked me and broke my ribs. Your ‘keeper’ will be here shortly. Good night, Mr. Woodley. I hope your sleep is filled with nightmares detailing every atrocity known to man.” This last was said so cheerfully, the man in the wheelchair tried to lash out at his tormentor, but she cuffed him upside the head, then gave him a second whack for good measure. She closed the door with a loud bang.

Back in her newly decorated kitchen, which was now so cheerful that she couldn’t wait to go into it in the morning, Paula sat down and poured herself a second cup of coffee. She looked over at the pies sitting on the counter. She hadn’t baked them yet. It was her intention to carry them down the street and bake them there so that when her saviors arrived—and that’s how she thought of the vigilantes—they would have the aroma of the baking pies to greet them. It was a small thing for having her life saved, but it was the only thing she was really good at—cooking and baking. She knew her old friends would understand. She could hardly wait to see them.

She’d almost turned herself inside out the day Nikki Quinn called and asked for her help. She remembered how she’d squealed, “Anything, I’ll do anything. Just tell me what you want me to do.” And Nikki had told her.

Paula Woodley let her mind wander as she waited for the evening home health aide to arrive. She had been on the brink of death, actually waiting to die, due to severe internal bleeding from one of her husband’s beatings, when the vigilantes swooped in to save her. Her recovery had been long, painful, and tortuous. Mr. Woodley had been returned to her by the government several months after she’d gotten out of the hospital. She remembered so clearly how she’d stared at him, wondering who the man in the wheelchair was. She’d already been told that virtually every bone in his body had been broken, but unable to comprehend such a thing, she’d merely chalked it up to media hype.

And then when she’d seen him with her own eyes, she’d acted like a lunatic as she danced around his wheelchair, laughing hysterically. “You’re mine now, Mr. Woodley. All mine, and I will remind you hourly that I am the only one you have, you son of a bitch!” She remembered how he’d cried, how he’d tried to speak but couldn’t.

The first thing she’d done was brew a pot of coffee. When it finished brewing and was scalding hot, she’d poured it into a cup with a huge red #1 on it that someone had given him at Christmastime. She’d filled it to the brim and carried it into the den, where he waited for her. She took up a position right in front of her husband and stuck her finger in the cup. It hadn’t cooled one bit on the short walk from the kitchen to the den. With slow deliberation she’d inched her way forward. Reading the intent in her eyes, Woodley tried to move the wheelchair, but she reached out with her foot and set the brake. With a steady hand she poured the coffee down into his crotch. She knew he was screaming because his mouth moved. A few seconds into the silent scream, he blacked out. When he came to, Paula tossed him a jar of Vaseline and walked away.

The next day and every day that followed, she would taunt him with what she was going to do to him. Though she would rarely follow through on her threats, and even when she did there was no real damage done and very little pain, just knowing he lived in perpetual fear—the way she had during their married life—was enough for her.

Paula turned when she heard a soft knock on the pane of glass in the kitchen door. She got up to unlock it. “Good evening, Joseph,” she said cheerfully. “Your patient is waiting for you. He had a wonderful day and ate a robust dinner. I baked a pie for you. Be sure to take it when you leave. I have to go down the street now. New people moved in today, and I’m in charge of the welcoming committee. Just be sure the door locks behind you when you leave. I might even be back before you leave, but just in case I’m not, I will be at 11063. If there’s a problem, you can always reach me on my cell.”

Joseph Nesbitt was a man of few words. He’d heard the stories, the rumors concerning his patient and the beating he’d taken at the hands of the vigilantes. He wasn’t sure if a woman or a group of women would have the stomach to do to the man what had been done to him. When he voiced his opinions to his wife, she’d laughed in his face and added a few more things that
could
have been done that the vigilantes had skipped. Every evening when he got home after settling his patient for the night, his wife would quiz him. Ethel was a big vigilante fan, as were all her friends. Sometimes he made up stories just to entertain her. She’d always clap her hands and say that the man should die already, and that his wife was a saint. He wasn’t so sure about the saint part. Sometimes he thought Mrs. Woodley hated her husband. She was good to Joseph, though, always making him pies and cakes or sending him home with a complete dinner. She paid for his gas and travel time and was more than generous during the holidays. He hoped Woodley lasted a long time so he could reap even more benefits. His wife loved Mrs. Woodley’s apple pies. He hoped he would remember to pick up some ice cream on his way home.

“Don’t worry about a thing, Mrs. Woodley. Take your time. I’ll stay an extra hour and read the paper to Mr. Woodley. He likes to be kept up on the goings-on in government.”

Nesbitt waited until Paula settled the unbaked pies on a baking sheet and left the house before he cut himself a slice of pie and ate it. It wasn’t until he was done that he realized he forgot to put ice cream on it. He slid his dish and knife and fork into the dishwasher and turned it on before he ambled down the hall to his patient, the day’s paper folded and stuck in his hip pocket.

Just when Joseph was getting his patient ready for the night, Paula Woodley was sliding her pies in the preheated oven and set about seeing to the house. She fluffed up the cushions on the chairs and sofas, checked the sheets on the beds, and made sure there were plenty of towels available, along with an assortment of bath salts, powders, combs, brushes, toothbrushes, and everything else for the comfort and convenience of seven wonderful women.

Back in the kitchen, she savored the aroma of the baking pies as she checked the contents of the pantry and refrigerator. Earlier in the afternoon, when she was frying her own chicken, she’d cooked up a huge platter and had had to make two trips to carry it and a tray of her macaroni and cheese for the women to eat on their arrival.

She’d shopped in the morning, filling the refrigerator with vegetables, fruit, juice, eggs, bacon, and milk. Yesterday she’d laid in a supply of coffee beans and even bought a new coffeemaker. Six of the vigilantes were big coffee drinkers, as she recalled. She’d also purchased all kinds of teas, not knowing which blends the little vigilante liked best.

She looked around. The kitchen was a pretty one, with light oak cabinets, and red-checkered curtains and place mats. She’d added a bright bowl of autumn flowers to the middle of the table. The vigilantes’ home away from home. She did take a moment to wonder where the women actually lived these days. Then again, it was none of her business. What she did know was she would go to her death before she ever admitted she’d helped them. Their secrets, whatever they were, were safe with her.