Worst Case Scenario, page 9
“Tired?” Cora asked.
He turned and smiled. “A little—you?”
“Yes, I’ve had enough excitement for one day. Where are you staying?”
Bishop hadn’t thought that far ahead. The weeks of planning and working out every last detail down to the minute in Beirut had left him not wanting to think any farther ahead than necessary. It was the only way he could decompress after a stressful op like that.
“Hadn’t thought about it too much.”
She shifted in her seat and turned toward him. “Where did you stay last night?”
“Hilton in Albuquerque.”
“Hmm.”
Bishop pulling up and parked beside her house. “I saw a hotel in Corona driving in.”
“Yeah, there’s a couple of places.” She pointed at the dashboard of the SUV. “Is your clock correct?”
“Yeah. A few minutes past nine.”
“If you drive to Corona, you’ll be sleeping in your car. The streets roll up early. Hotel’s already closed.”
“What?” Bishop was worn out. The thought of driving a couple of hours to find an open motel didn’t appeal to him.
Cora paused a moment and said, “You could stay here. On the couch,” she quickly added. “No sense driving for hours and spending good money if you don’t have to.”
Bishop considered the suggestion but quickly dismissed it. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m back on the road tomorrow.”
“Oh. Thought you were going to McFadden’s party.”
Bishop laughed. “No, I don’t go to stranger’s parties, especially after what your grandfather told me.”
Cora opened the passenger door and looked back his way as she got out. “Couch is still available. Least I can do for a knight in shining armor.” A smile cracked the corners of her mouth.
Bishop hesitated. This was probably a bad idea. Something was going on here he didn’t fully understand or want to be a part of. This girl might have problems that someone in his position couldn’t afford to get involved in. An involuntary yawn slipped from his lips, and Cora laughed.
He decided. “You sure?”
She motioned with her head. “C’mon, bring your things.”
Bishop grabbed his bag and followed her inside. The tiny house had grown cold and uninviting, but the smell of the baked beans lingered. Bishop dropped his bag in the corner, and she went to the fireplace, started a fire, then strolled into the kitchen.
“Want a nightcap?”
“Whatever you’re having will be fine.”
Moments later, she appeared with two glasses of white wine. The light from a corner lamp, the warmth and glow of the fireplace, and the smell of dry crackling wood gave the place a cozy, pleasant feel. They sat on opposite ends of the couch and watched the flames play and swirl.
After several minutes, Cora spoke, never taking her gaze from the fire. “If you change your mind and decide to go to the party tomorrow, be careful… Don’t let on you know me or Samuel.”
Bishop couldn’t help but be interested. The fear and apprehension Cora and Samuel felt toward this McFadden guy wasn’t close to normal. He had decided not to go to the party, but all the mystery gave him second thoughts. He’d make a final decision after a good night’s sleep. “I might go, we’ll see.”
Cora exhaled. “Watch out for Minerva—a bad spirit possesses her, you know.”
Bishop had just taken a sip of wine when Cora’s remark caused him to spit it back into the glass. “A what?” He coughed, wiping a few drops from his chin.
“You’ll see,” she said.
Bishop considered continuing the conversation, but it was getting a little too strange, so he changed the subject. “How did you come about living here, on top of this mountain?”
Cora pulled a cover over her legs and took a sip before answering. “After college, I taught for a while, but that didn’t work out—so I applied to the US Forest Service for this job. I’m only up here from May through October. By the end of this month, I’ll be back working at the forest service center.”
There was hesitation and concern in her voice, and this gave Bishop pause. There was more to that story—lots more. “Seems like a lonely job—up here by yourself—sitting in a lookout tower.”
Cora stared into the fire a moment before saying, “I like it,” she yawned, drained the glass, and sat it on the end table. “Think I’ll turn in.”
He stood. “Thanks for the sofa.”
She nodded. “I’ll bring you out some blankets and a pillow.”
Ten minutes later, Bishop lay on the couch looking at the fire. It was dying now, just the hot, red coals left. The room became a little darker each second. He wanted to attend the party at the McFadden’s tomorrow out of curiosity more than anything else. Wanted to check out the man who collects interesting people and his wife possessed by a bad spirit. He’d let headquarters decide. He’d call in tomorrow for any new leads. If there was nothing new, he’d attend the party before expanding his search east. Not much of a plan, but it was all he had. He smiled at a quote from the old Oklahoma oilman, T. Boone Pickens. “I’d rather have an idiot with a plan than a genius without one.”
Something caught Bishop’s eye—something outside the window. It was pitch black except for the dim moonlight struggling through the tall pines, but he could have sworn he saw a shadow move past the window. He felt for the Sig Sauer on the floor under the sofa. Rising from the couch, he walked to the window and peered out—nothing. He slipped through the dining area wearing only his boxers to the sliding glass door facing the back of the house—nothing. The shadows of tree limbs dancing in the light mountain breeze cast strange outlines on the ground.
Bishop lay back on the sofa, the pistol a little closer this time. He remained very still and listened for at least ten minutes. As the room darkened from the dying embers, his body relaxed, and his eyelids fluttered and became heavy. He fought it for another five minutes but finally gave in and plunged into a deep restless sleep. Dreams of shadow men watching through the windows caused him to toss and turn.
FBI Special Agent Daniel Piedmont turned the corner in his car and searched the numbers on the homes. This upscale community of Chevy Chase, Maryland, was one of the more established neighborhoods. One and a half million plus was the price range—lots of older couples and government executives from DC.
Piedmont stopped in front of the two-story colonial with the Boston ivy climbing the walls, almost to the roof. The stately oaks swayed in the breeze, and a few orange and red leaves floated to the ground. The morning was crisp, and the sweet aroma of someone burning wood wormed its way through the community. A few of the ivy’s leaves had also started turning color, signaling the end of summer. The northern breeze ruffled Piedmont’s short black hair as he exited the car and looked around to see who was watching. At this time, on a Saturday morning, only a middle-aged couple rode past on bicycles, and a yard service crew was finishing up across the street and loading their mowers into a trailer.
Agent Piedmont waited for the lawn service to leave while checking his appearance in the car window’s reflection. He tightened the knot in his tie and swept back his hair again, smiling at the image. He leisurely walked up the sidewalk and stopped at the door. Looking back over his shoulder, the bikers were out of sight, and the mowers had moved down the block to another house around the corner. He scanned the exterior walls and windows of the porch for cameras before ringing the doorbell.
The elderly man answering the door wore casual, brown chinos with a forest green short sleeve shirt. His silver hair was combed straight back, and the scent of fresh aftershave wafted past Piedmont’s nose. “Agent Piedmont?” the man asked.
“Yes, sir,” Piedmont said and displayed his FBI identification.
A satisfied smile crossed the old man’s lips before saying, “Come in, I was surprised to hear from the Bureau—didn’t know you had a dog in this fight.”
Piedmont chanced one last look around the outside before following the senator into the inside. The foyer had high ceilings with a gold-inlay eighteenth-century chandelier overhead. Expensive Persian rugs covered the dark stained wood floors. A fresh paint smell lingered in the air as Piedmont trailed Senator Fillmore down a short hall and took a left into a private study. The sunlight streaming through the open shutters spilled across the desk, leaving bright yellow lines over the piles of papers.
Fillmore asked, “Could I get you a cup of coffee?”
“That’s very kind, but no, thank you, sir. I can’t stay but a minute.”
“Take a seat, and let’s see what you have.”
Piedmont handed Fillmore the 9”x12” envelope before taking a chair near the desk. Fillmore squinted at the bright sunlight shining through the plantation shutters. Before sitting, he closed the wooden slats, giving the place a shadowy feeling.
Piedmont crossed his legs and smiled—perfect. “Sorry about all the cloak and dagger, Senator, but I’ve been assigned to unofficially leak this information before your hearings on Monday. Didn’t want to do it during business hours in the District.”
Fillmore nodded while slipping on a pair of half-lens reading glasses. “I appreciate the help and understand your discretion; McFadden’s been a slippery one to corner—doesn’t leave much of a footprint.” Fillmore slid a letter opener in the top of the sealed envelope. “My committee’s been looking into his campaign contributions for months. I am finally starting to make some inroads. He could be indicted soon if things break in our favor.”
Piedmont casually turned and listened for movement in the house. He leaned forward in the soft leather chair as Fillmore pulled the papers from the envelope. “We’re alone, aren’t we? I don’t want anyone to associate the Bureau or me with coming here today.”
Fillmore chuckled and adjusted his reading glasses while studying the papers. “Oh, don’t worry about that—domestic help has the day off, and my wife won’t be back for another couple of hours. Now explain what this information has to do with McFadden’s dealings and how it can be used in my hearings?”
When Piedmont didn’t answer, Fillmore looked up, and his eyes fixed on the gun in Piedmont’s hand. The first shot hit him in the chest and the last two in the head. Piedmont calmly unscrewed the silencer and removed the papers from Fillmore’s lifeless hands. He carefully slipped them back into the envelope and strolled to the mirror outside the study in the hall. He adjusted the knot in his tie again, swept back the short black hair, and gently touched the thin scar on the bridge of his nose. He glanced back into the study at the corpse. Fillmore was just another small-minded fool. The man couldn’t see how his ridiculous inquiries might do great harm to a patriot like Clark McFadden. Piedmont would never let that happen. He’d protect Mr. McFadden with his life.
Piedmont scanned the inside of the entryway for cameras, opened the front door, and took a quick look outside. There was no one on the street or sidewalk. He used his handkerchief to wipe the inside and outside doorknobs before calmly meandering to his car. He had just enough time to get back to FBI headquarters before being missed.
Cora rose with the sun. She didn’t mind getting up early, she liked the cool mornings—more birds singing. Sitting in the fire tower with a hot cup of tea, wrapped in a blanket and warm jacket, was heaven. It was the climb up she hated.
She’d dreamed about Bishop last night—they were making love. This was surprising. She’d not dreamed about a man in years—much less making to love to one. Perhaps it was because she understood theirs would be a short-term affair. No long relationship, no baggage to contend with. He was a traveler just passing through, and she was stuck here, as least as long as Samuel lived. Couldn’t leave him, and he’d never leave his place. He had a mission not fulfilled. He wasn’t the kind of man to leave something undone.
After her shower, Cora slipped on her robe and cracked open the bedroom door. Bishop lay sleeping and shirtless on the couch with the blanket at his waist, just the top of his blue plaid boxers showing. Sunlight creeping through the curtains outlined several old, puckered scars on his well-toned body. Cora focused on them. Had he been in an accident, a fight, a war?
Just then, his eyes popped open, and stared her way.
“Good morning,” he said.
How did he know she was there? The door hardly made a sound. “Good morning—sleep okay?”
“Great.” He sat up and swung his feet to the floor.
The pistol lay just under the edge of the sofa. She nodded. “You always sleep with that?”
He glanced at the weapon, half-hidden by his hiking boots, and a boyish grin cracked the corners of his mouth. “Didn’t know if there were any snakes under the couch.”
“Yeah, right. Get some more sleep if you want. I have to go to work.”
She ducked back into the bedroom to finish dressing. She removed her robe and eyed her nude body in the full-length mirror. She ran her hands over her breast and down the sides of her hips before turning to check her profile. What would he do if she walked out there right now and lay beside him on the sofa? He’d shown as little interest in her as a man could for an attractive woman. She frowned. Was she attractive? Other men had found her desirable, but only one had won her heart. Even he was gone now. Her frown evolved into an ugly scowl as her eyes checked every feature on her face and body. Her hands drifted to her flat stomach, and she sucked in her breath. Yeah, it wouldn’t hurt to lay off a few carbs.
When Cora left twenty minutes later, Bishop’s soft snoring filled the room. She slowly climbed the steps to the tower, keeping a firm grip on the handrails. How would life be in another place with a man like Bishop? Silly questions for a grown woman to even think about. But she did think about it. In fact, she dreamed about it. She could only exist here; someplace else, she could start living again. But that was for another time at some unknown date in the future. Until then, she could only dream.
FBI Special Agent Sean Carpenter wasn’t happy this morning. Not just because it was a Saturday or because he had to break a promise to take his wife to dinner for their tenth wedding anniversary this evening. No, his problems went far beyond that. He sat at his desk in the Albuquerque FBI office, reading reports instead of investigating leads from the stolen nukes case. Fact was, the leads had dried up.
When the FBI set up the Joint Operations Center in the field office, they’d gotten a flurry of calls. Of course, all the calls came in due to the cover story about the theft of government communications equipment from a hijacked tractor-trailer off I-40. Until the government came clean to the public and acknowledged the theft of nukes, there was a limit to future leads. Since the last few calls entailed eyewitnesses to aliens making off with the equipment and traveling at lightning speeds out of the galaxy, Carpenter decided to catch up on the mountain of paper on his desk.
This report was from the Department of Energy concerning the stolen warheads. They were due a refurbishing, and that’s why they were in transit to Sandia National Laboratory in Albuquerque. Carpenter sipped his coffee and studied the report. Being the Weapons of Mass Destruction Coordinator for the Albuquerque office didn’t make him an expert, but you didn’t have to understand the basic math. Plutonium-239 has a half-life of 24,110 years. Even in a weaponized form, how could the gamma rays and neutrons be shielded from detection? Unless… Carpenter had recently convinced himself the weapons probably hadn’t been whisked away but hidden, waiting for the search to die down. And they were hidden within a reasonable distance of the ambush. It was still difficult for him to believe someone had just driven them away from the attack site. But being an avid reader of Sherlock Holmes, Carpenter recalled Holmes saying, “When you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”
Carpenter walked to the full wall map of New Mexico and took another sip of coffee as he examined the area. They had covered the attack site and miles in every direction. They must widen the search area. The resources so far provided by DOE wouldn’t be adequate. They were going to need more detection equipment to find the radiological signature—lots more.
Carpenter strolled back toward his desk, sipping the coffee. A thought crossed his mind, and he turned back to the wall map. Wonder what that guy, Bishop, is doing?
When Bishop awoke the second time, his body was stiff and still craved rest, but he wanted to get up. He peeled a banana, made some coffee, and dressed. He walked out into the cool morning air, munching on the banana. He strolled out the back door around the small house and found an old Moped covered with a blue tarp. He turned the corner and stared at the front window, which looked into the living room. He squatted and examined the soft soil of the flowerbed under the window sill. Bishop ran his hand around the footprints. About a men’s size ten. No regular boot or shoe prints, but some kind of smooth-soled footwear. The indentations of the ball of the foot and the heel were the most pronounced. He’d been right. Uninvited visitor last night. What kind of peeping Tom travels to the top of a mountain in the middle of the night to look into a lady’s window? His mind drifted back to the discussions about the McFadden guy. Why would a multimillionaire care about some girl sitting in a fire tower above his ranch? Made no sense…
Bishop punched in the number for the office, and Colonel Maxwell answered.
“Good morning, Bishop here.”
Maxwell said, “Let’s go secure.”
Bishop stared up at the fire tower before clicking the indented switch on the side of his phone, and a sharp chirp sounded. “Secure.”
“So, what’s going on?” Maxwell asked. “Fuller called yesterday. General Cook promised him an update before noon.”
Bishop scratched the back of his head before saying, “Not much. Got rousted by the Bureau when I visited the attack site. Don’t think they want to play with us.
