Deadlock (FBI Thriller #24)(8)
Even though Celeste was holding the planning luncheon at her own home, she wanted the main event, a huge formal charity function, to be held at her father-in-law’s magnificent house in Kalorama Heights. Rebekah had wondered aloud to Rich why Celeste wouldn’t want to hold the charity function in her own lovely old Georgian house on Hempstead Road.
“Because,” Rich had told her patiently, “Celeste considers me a power in Congress, thus a draw to the big spenders.” And he’d rolled his eyes and grinned.
One of her husband’s best qualities was that he never took himself too seriously. She’d said, “I wonder how it makes Tucker feel to know he’s not important enough or his house grand enough to host this shindig?”
“Were I my son, I would be royally pissed.” He’d shrugged. “It’s not my problem. If Tuck doesn’t like it, it’s up to him to stop it.”
Her thoughts went back again to the events of last night, her memories of Zoltan tumbling into her brain. In the bright sunlight on this crisp October day, what had happened now seemed preposterous, unbelievable. When Rich had met her at the door last night, he had drawn her in and kissed her deeply. She’d settled willingly against him, breathed in his seductive Armani scent. Had he worn the same scent for his first wife? She felt ashamed and hugged him tighter.
“So tell me, my beauty, about this Zoltan. Did you find out what your grandfather wanted to talk to you about?”
She heard no mocking in his voice, no barely hidden sneer, even though she knew he didn’t believe the dead had a working voice any more than she did. But he knew her grandmother believed and Rebekah was curious, so he encouraged her to go if she wished. She raised her face. “Grandfather called me Pumpkin again—through Zoltan. But of course he didn’t really because he’s dead, so how did she know? She invited me to come back, but I’m not going. All of it was really absurd.” She paused a moment. “She’s a charlatan. I didn’t even wait to find out what she hoped to gain from it all.” She shook her head. She felt the beginnings of a headache.
“So John, your grandfather, didn’t speak to you, he spoke to you through her? Did you recognize his voice?”
“Not really. He wanted to talk about a story he’d told me as a child.”
“A story? Oh sure, you told me several of them he’d entertained you with when you were young. But one particular story?”
She nodded. “Actually, one I never told you, a secret story, only between us, only for me.” Her head began to pound. She drew a deep breath, held his dear face between her two hands, and smiled up at him. “I’m not going back.”
Bless Rich, he’d only patted her face and led her into his study. He knew she loved this large room, all dark wood, rich burgundy leather sofas and chairs, and built-in bookshelves that reached the ceiling.
Her husband had sat beside her on the soft leather sofa, lightly stroked his hand over her cheek. “Tell me, was Zoltan at all convincing?”
“Well, she’s remarkably talented and has all the bells and whistles, like dimming lights, fire leaping up in the fireplace, that sort of thing.” She sighed. “Rich, I really want to forget it.”
He took her hands between his, kissed her fingers. “Let it stay between you and the Departed, at least for now.” He grinned as he spoke. Again, there was no judgment, no sarcasm in his voice.
Rebekah tucked her legs beneath her and leaned into her husband. “Enough about mediums. Tell me about your day.”
“I arranged a meeting with Jacqueline tomorrow, and I know she’ll want my support about her most recent skirmish with the president over his tax-cut proposal. Trust me, most everyone is afraid she could blow up the party’s re-election chances if she oversteps.” He sighed, sat back, and sipped his brandy.
“If she persists, smile at her and tell her the last thing she wants is to lose her own position as Speaker of the House.”
He laughed and kissed her forehead next to where her headache still brewed.
That’s not important right now. Put it away. Focus on Celeste and this blasted lunch, maybe practice a sincere smile.
Rebekah looked to the left, then to the right. Except for her Beemer, Hempstead Road was practically empty of cars this time of day. Well, it was never jammed with traffic any time of day, actually. She was about to step off the curb when she heard a car engine coming up from her left, closing fast, terrifyingly fast. She whirled about as a white SUV screeched to a stop beside her. A big man dressed in black, wearing a mask, a hoodie pulled over his head, jumped out and grabbed her. Rebekah screamed and kicked up at his groin, but he turned in time and her knee struck him hard on his thigh. He cursed, jerked her arm up high behind her, and raised a syringe.
5
Rebekah fought back, kicking and hitting whatever part of him she could reach. She felt him rip the sleeve of her blazer as he twisted her arm back, but she was too flooded with adrenaline for the pain to overwhelm her. He was cursing her, telling her to stop or he’d break her arm. When she knew her arm was about to snap, he was suddenly jerked away from her, spun around, and someone struck his neck with a fist. He went down hard, struggling to breathe, his hands clawing at his throat. A big man in a black leather jacket dropped beside her attacker. He was still choking, thrashing on the ground, trying to get away. His hoodie fell back behind his mask, and she could see he was bald—not naturally, he shaved his head. She could see the sheen of dark stubble. A second man, also in a mask and hoodie, jumped out of the SUV, a gun in his hand. Her rescuer jerked around, but he wasn’t fast enough. The second man struck him in the head with the gun. He went down on his knees, dazed. The second man hauled his partner to his feet and shoved him into the open back of the SUV. He jumped in the driver’s seat, and the SUV roared off, tires screeching. Her rescuer pulled a gun from a clip at his waist, fell onto his stomach, and fired off six fast shots. She saw the left rear tire explode, but the SUV kept going.