The President's Daughter (27 page)

“Maybe tomorrow after you’ve spent a night here you’ll have something useful to tell me.”

There was the sound of something like pellets scattering through the broken window, then bouncing along the floor.

“What was that?” Dina asked warily.

“Corn,” the voice replied.

“Corn?” Dina frowned. Corn?

“To make sure you have lots of company tonight.” The footsteps hadn’t yet passed the door when the first of Dina’s company arrived. She heard the faint rustling grow louder.

“Oh, God, not mice . . . I hate mice. . . .” She shuddered.

She drew her feet up as close to her body as she could and shrank back against the wall and fought back the anxiety that was steadily building inside her.

“At least I hope they’re only mice. . . .”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Simon tried to keep his eyes fixed on the road ahead and not on the enormous ship that was approaching the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel on his right and hoped that he’d be on his way
out
of the tunnel before the ship was passing over it. As many times as he’d taken this route, he still felt a twinge of discomfort every time he slipped into one of the two tunnels when there was a large ship in the vicinity. He was always somewhat relieved to see the light at the end of that mile-long dip under the bay and happy when he reached the causeway or one of the bridges again. And happier still when he reached solid land, though he admitted that only to himself. How much more so at night, when, like now, the bridge seemed to disappear into the blackness and appeared to be little more than strings of Christmas lights strung over the bay.

Simon had stayed later than he’d planned in Virginia Beach, since he’d arrived at Conrad Fritz’s home in the morning only to learn that the man had gone out at dawn on a charter boat and wasn’t expected back until late in the day. Late in the day had turned out to be a little past 7:00 P.M. Simon had just about given up his watch when the new Buick pulled into the Fritz driveway and the object of his search stepped out.

Unfortunately, Fritz was no greater help than Stinson had been.

Fritz acknowledged that he’d known about Hayward’s affair with Blythe. And yes, he had known about Hayward’s stated desire to not run for a second term. But according to Fritz,
he’d
been the one to talk him out of that.

“I told him, ‘Graham, you’re a damn fool. That woman will still be there when you’ve done your duty. And then you can do whatever the hell you want with her and in another few years no one who matters will give a damn. But I can tell you right now that there’s no way in hell we’re going to let you ruin the careers of everyone who put you where you are. So you can take that stupid idea of yours and float it in the Potomac, because the only way you’re leaving office before a second term is up will be in a pine box. And I can arrange that if I have to.’

“And I would have, by God, if it had come to that.” Conrad Fritz had chewed on the end of his cigar, then tapped on it with pudgy fingers to knock off the ash. “Fortunately, for everyone’s sake, it never came to that. Graham came to his senses and all was well. Course then the girl died in the meantime, which just goes to show you that you never make your life plans based on someone else, if you follow me.”

“Did Graham change his mind before or after Blythe died, do you remember?”

“Yeah, Blythe. That was her name. What a looker she was, let me tell you. In all fairness, you almost couldn’t blame the man. And I do remember, he changed his mind before she died. I remember because he told me that he’d talked to her about it. He said she agreed with me, that he should stay in office and run for a second term. Then she left town for a while— good while. I really thought the whole affair was over. But then, there she was with Kendall at one of those big Christmas parties at the White House. I figured Graham had just shuttled her out of town or something to keep the press from finding out about her. And as far as I know, they never did.” Fritz paused and asked, “You’re not going to put any of this in your book, right?”

“No. I’m not going to put it in my book.”

“Good. Because with young Graham getting ready to announce his candidacy, it wouldn’t look good. Even all these years later, it still wouldn’t look good. Don’t want to take the focus from the candidate, if you follow.”

“I follow.” Simon had nodded. “It’s one story I won’t be writing. . . .”

At least, I won’t be writing it right now.

Simon sighed heavily. It was still a big story. Still an important story, maybe the biggest story he’d ever come across. All of his instincts as a journalist screamed that if he could solve the mystery surrounding Blythe’s death, he’d have himself one hell of a story. Not just the righteous President and the heiress story, but the murder of the President’s mistress. But right now, at this moment, Simon still wasn’t sure what he was going to do about it.

Because in spite of all he knew of what a story like this could do for his career, there was one thing he hadn’t planned on when he’d started tracking the story. He hadn’t planned on Dina.

In the time they’d spent together, he’d become more and more drawn to her. Not just her beauty, though a man could bask in her glow for a lifetime. Not for the first time, Simon felt a twinge of envy for Graham Hayward, who’d been loved by such a woman. Simon wondered what it would take for Dina to love as deeply. It was something Simon longed to discover, and would, he vowed, as soon as this nightmare had come to an end for her.

And it was for her, Simon had come to realize, that he continued to pursue the truth. Not for the prize of fame that could await the one who told the story. But for Dina, because now the prize could well be Dina’s life.

When, he wondered, had it become more about
Dina
and less about
Blythe
?

Simon would take on demons from hell to keep Dina safe. Now and always. The realization rattled him more than he’d have been willing to admit.

And the story? Well, that would have to be dealt with, sooner or later. But right now, Dina would be waiting for him at the end of this trip. That, more than anything, spurred him toward the truth. What he’d do with it, once he’d uncovered it, well, that remained to be seen. . . .

He stepped on the accelerator as he approached the Maryland/Virginia state lines, formulating his game plan. Since it was too late to pay a visit to the professor, he’d stop at the town house, get a few hours’ sleep, a shower, and a change of clothes, then drive to Norton’s house in the morning, tell him what he’d learned, what he suspected, and find out whether or not Norton had any thoughts on the subject.

To Simon’s way of thinking, he’d pretty much eliminated any political motive for Blythe’s death. Both Stinson and Fritz, while having known about the affair, professed to have known that Hayward had made his decision to remain in office
before
Blythe died. Simon doubted that the fact that Hayward would have maintained his relationship with Blythe would have been a matter of concern to either man, and therefore it was not likely to have been an issue to anyone else from a political standpoint.

And so, Simon reasoned, perhaps they needed to start looking a little closer to home. Hayward’s home. And if, as Simon had begun to consider, one of the Haywards was behind Blythe’s death, he needed to narrow down that field quickly.

Dina’s life could very well depend on it.

Dina leaned her head back against the wall and gazed out through a broken windowpane at a starless night and tried to settle herself enough to focus on a way out of the dark, dirty shed. Outside, night creatures went about their nocturnal business, made their night sounds. From someplace very close by Dina heard an owl screech and, a moment later, the cry of its prey. She pressed her back into the wall and bit her bottom lip to keep from crying out. She was pretty sure her captor was gone, but just in case she was lurking outside, Dina didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing just how frightened she was.

Whistling in the dark, Jude called it.

Dina puckered up her lips and tried to do just that, but her lips were trembling with fear and she couldn’t do much more than hiss.

She’d used her feet to kick as much of the corn as she could reach into the far corner, and none too soon. There were sounds of increasing activity from that direction, and as her eyes adjusted to the dark she became aware of more and more vague shadows moving in the corner—nothing distinct, for which she was grateful. As long as the shapes were merely shadows, she could try to convince herself that they were something other than what she knew they really were. Kittens, for example, climbing over one another in play, rather than hungry rodents seeking a meal.

Something bumped her foot, and she banged her heel on the floor. There was a mad scurrying, then silence for a moment; then the tentative rustle from the corner began again. Moments later something climbed over her calf, and she shuddered, repulsed.

“Ugh!”
she cried out.

Dina pulled her legs up as close to her body as she could and prayed that nothing else would decide to climb on her. What she’d give for that Swiss Army knife that hung from her key chain. That same key chain upon which she’d clipped the keys to Betsy’s Jeep before she carelessly tossed them into her purse—along with her cell phone—which she’d left on the front passenger seat.

Lot of good they do me now.

Jude had always insisted that you could get through anything so long as you kept your sense of humor, but it was becoming increasingly difficult.

Dina wondered if Jude had ever tested this theory by being locked in a small dirty space with little fresh air and lots of unfriendly, unpleasant furry creatures.

There was simply nothing funny about it.

There was another flurry of movement over near the corn and Dina poised to bang her heels, but the disruption stopped as suddenly as it started. She scootched into the corner to put as much distance between her body and the midnight snackers and rested her forehead against her knees—a most uncomfortable position, with her hands tied behind her back—and tried to convince herself that she was dreaming.

Maybe in the morning I’ll wake up in my bed back in the
carriage house and find that none of this is true. It will all
have been a dream, like that old
Dallas
episode. Jude will
still be my mother and there will never have been anyone
named Blythe Pierce.

It occurred to Dina that she never did ask Betsy where Blythe was buried.

If I get out of here, I’m going to do that. I’m going to visit
Blythe’s grave. And someday, if I ever get the nerve, maybe
I’ll visit Graham’s grave, too.

If I ever get out of here . . .

She glanced back at the sky and thought about Graham Hayward. If this were a fanciful tale, a fairy tale, she mused, then he’d see her down here, imprisoned in this sorry shed, and since he was her father, he’d send someone—something—to rescue her. But this was real, there was no magic, and no friendly ghost was likely to intervene.

“I’ll put flowers on your grave if you lend me a hand here,” she said aloud, knowing how silly it sounded.

I will put flowers on his grave—and hers, too
—Dina silently vowed,
if I ever get out of here.

I’ll tell Jude how much I love her and that I’ve forgiven
her for keeping the truth from me. And that even though it
will not always be easy, we’ll get through this as a family.

And that will include Betsy. I’ll visit her often and make
sure that there is always room in my life for her.

Oh, yes. One other thing.

I will kiss Simon Keller until he begs for mercy.

If I ever get out of here . . .

Morning had been a long time in coming.

Outside the shed, the first of the songbirds had started their chatter long before the new day had dawned. Dina watched the window, wondering what time it was and hoping the sun would arrive soon so she could get some sleep. Knowing she shared her space with so many unseen creatures in the dark had kept her awake. She hadn’t wanted to open her eyes this morning and find that something small—or not so small—and furry had decided that some body part of hers would make a fine resting spot.

She’d kept herself awake all night by singing all of the Sheryl Crow songs she could remember from that last CD she’d bought. She’d gotten through “Am I Getting Through (Parts 1 and 2)” all the way to “River-wide” before her throat started to bother her and she remembered that she hadn’t had water since the previous afternoon and wasn’t likely to be getting any in the near future. There was a bottle of water in her bag, she reminded herself, right there with the Swiss Army knife and her cell phone.

She sighed at the irony of it. She who had always been one to travel prepared for any emergency had brought along everything she needed—but all, sadly, was out of reach.

For the hundredth time Dina tried to figure out who had lured her here and prayed that Jude hadn’t been found.

Jude McDermott, Dina shook her head, was such an unlikely target for such intrigue. Small-town librarian. Volunteer for a number of organizations. Paid her taxes on time. Cleaned up after her dog on their walks around the neighborhood. A member in good standing in her church. The one who could always be counted on to come up with the best fund-raisers for the community’s yearly literacy campaign. The one who always remembered Henderson’s housebound by dropping off a new book by a favorite author or homemade soup.

And right now being hunted by some unknown someone because years ago she’d taken in her best friend’s child and raised her as her own.