While Justice Sleeps(111)

“I may not have to.” Vance crouched next to Rita. “Your daughter is a fine attorney. Brilliant. She came up with one solution none of us thought of.”

Phillips turned to his boss. “You think it will work?”

“It should. All we want is Justice Wynn off the Court now. The vote will remain split, Congress will have to go on recess, and President Stokes will make an appointment in August. Our man will caucus with the other four, and GenWorks will be dead.”

Phillips scowled. “What about the others? They know too much.”

“I imagine there will be a tragic fire in her apartment while they are visiting. Old buildings catch fire often in the early summer. We can dump our guest’s body there, for effect.”

    In her corner, Rita’s whimpers faded to the occasional sob. Vance heard the shift to utter despair. “You’ll die with your daughter, Mrs. Keene. Family should stay together.”



* * *



—

Less than a minute before midnight, Avery answered her cell phone. “Avery Keene.”

“I have a proposal for you.” Vance had engaged the voice modulator. On his wrist, he set a timer. Any trace on the cell line would ping a number of towers, which gave him sufficient time for his task. “At seven in the morning, you will call the White House at this number.” He rattled off digits that rang directly to the Oval Office. “Request a meeting with President Brandon Stokes.”

Avery scoffed. “The president won’t take my call.”

“He’ll take this one if you tell his assistant that you wish to resign Justice Howard Wynn from the U.S. Supreme Court.”

“What? How did you know about that?” The tremors in her voice didn’t have to be faked.

“Do you want your mother alive, or do you want to haggle over your right to privacy?”

“If I offer his resignation and the president accepts, you’ll let Rita go?”

“You have my word.”

Unable to resist, Avery inquired, “The word of honor of a kidnapper? Please.”

“Don’t question my word of honor, Ms. Keene. I uphold my pledges.”

“I apologize.” Avery spoke quickly, afraid she’d overplayed. “I’m just scared for my mother. I’m sorry.”

“Be very careful. Seven a.m., or I return to my original demand.”

“I’ll contact the president,” Avery swore. “And then I get my mother?”

“Fair trade.” The alarm buzzed. “Tomorrow.”

The phone disconnected and Avery leaned forward, elbows propped on her knees, head in hands. A firm hand closed over her hunched shoulders. Ten minutes later, she sat up, her eyes clear. “Status?”

    “I’ve almost got it,” Jared told her, pointing to the laptop he’d rigged to track the call to her phone. In his hand, he held the jammer that would block all surveillance equipment for the next thirty seconds, sending the listener ambient noises and fuzzing the signal from the cameras. “According to the signal, the call bounced around a number of cell towers, but I’m fairly certain Rita is near.”

Avery released a shaky breath. “God, forgive me.”

“For what?” Jared sat beside her on the bed. “For saving two lives?”

“For not letting the FBI go and rescue her now.”

“Do what you must,” he forced himself to say.

Avery knew better, knew his father’s life rested in her hands. “She’ll be safe until tomorrow,” she reminded herself. She was in a Philidor position, where she’d run out of moves for a victory. Instead, outmatched, she had to play for a draw. In the endgame, there were only two real options: win or stay alive. For now, staying alive had to be paramount for all of them. “If the FBI storms the location now, the rest of the plan falls apart. We have to wait.”





FORTY-SIX


Monday, June 26

“Ready.” In all her imaginings, Avery had never expected to be huddled on her sofa over a phone, waiting for an audience with the president of the United States. Noah and Ling hovered at her shoulder. Jared leaned in the doorway to the bathroom, his impatience fairly palpable.

At precisely seven a.m., she dialed the number from Vance. Soon, a polite, well-trained voice greeted her. In seconds, she hopscotched over layers of protocol to reach the Oval Office. If worry for her mother hadn’t occupied every corner of her mind not concerned with the failure of her plan, she might have been impressed with herself.

As it was, a permanent case of nausea jitterbugged with nerve-searing apprehension. Which metastasized into unadulterated panic when President Stokes greeted her.

“Ms. Avery Keene. You’re almost as famous as I am.”

Pundits raptured at President Stokes’s capacity to infuse the recitation of a name with an intimacy that left the listener certain of her unique place in his world. That ability translated itself into devoted volunteers and throngs of voters who failed to heed the clarion calls from a bewildered press dutifully chronicling his misdeeds. Under Stokes, the common touch had supplanted common sense in droves, driven by a mellifluous gift of charm.

This pleased him immensely. “How can I help you, Avery?”

Avery discovered that she was not immune. Her skin warmed, and she took a deep breath that sputtered out when she spoke. “President Stokes. Thank you for taking the time to talk with me this morning.”