Silent Thunder Part 4

Ramsay: Probably, with an unp.r.o.nounceable name and seven surly gypsy fiddlers. Isn't it halfway to Dulles?

Halfway to Dallas, Pam admitted, and pointed a finger at Laurie's nose. You, she accused, have probably never had a buffaloburger. Betcha. And you, sir, have never had a choice of two hundred beers.

Not at one sitting, he hedged, but there's always a first time. So they drove nearly to Georgetown and ate at the Brickskellar, a family saloon with a game room that kept Laurie squandering half-dollars long after dinner.

In that time he sketched some of his background for Pam, including his boyhood on a Nebraska farm and his entry into media as a sports announcer. He claimed the blame for his divorce, saying that Laurie made all his mistakes worthwhile.

He learned in turn that the Garzas had sharecropped near Tuc.u.mcari, and that Pam'srevolt against tradition had included leaving the Catholic Church. I'm not sure whether I'm a Methodist or a Baptist, she laughed. I've tried both.

Working her way through school in Albuquerque, Pam said, she had then worked her way up the ladder of a local public relations firm and, offered a chance at similar work in the nation's capital, she had leaped at it. She also alluded to a youthful affair with an older man in Albuquerque an alliance that he soon broke off with the genuine mixed emotions of a family man. I was dumb, of course, she added, and he was dumber, but really a sweet man. I had no idea how important he'd? ah, well. No regrets, Alan. And adeptly, she changed the subject.

Then Laurie was standing at their booth. Five more bucks, she promised, and I can beat the golem.

You are the golem, he said. Isn't that a lot of shooting, kid? I thought it was against your principles.

It's not real, Dad. She had always called him 'Daddy.' Was it possible that the girl was maturing before his very eyes? She c.o.c.ked her head and looked at the adults in turn, then leaned like a bartender on the table. 'Course, I could play World Cup against Pam on your set at home, for nuthin'.

Pam, mirth dancing across her high cheekbones, made her face deadpan: You train her to say these things?

Absolutely. Start 'em early, sez I.

She made her eyes huge, innocent, and whispered, Shameless. And then agreed, on condition that they detour to pick up her car at the stadium. As he was peeling off bills for the tab for honest-to-G.o.d buffalo steaks and cla.s.sic Kulmbacher beer, Pam said, It just occurred to me: you big TV stars have to get up very early. Maybe we should do this another time?

She was making it easy to disengage? and Jesus, what about Kathleen? Well, screw Kathleen, or rather unscrew her, unless Pam left early. There was no question in his mind about dalliance at his place, not with Laurie there, and he didn't give a d.a.m.n because this delightful woman affected him like champagne. He wouldn't abandon the bubbles just yet, and as they squeezed into the Genie, he told her the evening was young. He promised himself that he would simply have to call Kathleen later.

Laurie, to his surprise, wanted to ride with Pam. He let her, laughing to himself as he spotted the Honda following him to Hyattsville because now he had a tail who was really tail, if he wanted to be raunchy about it. And he did, and he didn't; Pam seemed the kind of forthright good woman who made a man ashamed of his own readiness, but ready nonetheless. Using hand signals, he directed Pam to park behind him at his garage and then walked them to his place, easing into their argument on Great Video Games I Have Known once inside the apartment.

Laurie proved the more knowledgeable player, defeating her father and Pam in turn until Ramsay finally edged her at Pele. I'm sleepy, is all, she excused her loss. Okay if I crash, Dad?

You were double-teamed, kid, he said, hugging her and grinning as Pam got a quick hugtoo. He poured skim milk for them all and took a razzing from Pam on the spartan contents of his refrigerator.

Next time you raid that fridge, Laurie, she said as the girl headed for the study, once her own bedroom, grab a baseball bat for the attack of the mold monster in there.

Weapons are un-American, Laurie recited seriously, and yawned off to bed.

Now, there goes a well-rounded liberal, Pam said.

Ten pounds too well-rounded, Ramsay responded. Pam a.s.sured him that Laurie would lose her chunkiness, watching him at his coffee making game, applauding softly as he managed it in forty-three seconds, closer to the record. You inspired me, he said. Maybe there's life after forty, at that.

Think of years as seasoning. I do, she said. And kissed her fingertip and placed it against the tip of his nose.

If Sat.u.r.day had worn well, it only improved after late coffee. Pam showed him what happened when marshmallows were briefly microwaved, sprinkling walnuts on the grossly swollen puffs of sweet nothing, enmeshing her small fingers in strands of goo to feed him a bite. He found one edible strand stretching from her lips to his, and they vied for it, and the kiss began with shared merriment but quickly turned solemn. The kisses that followed were sweeter, he said, than warm marshmallow.

And a whole lot less caloric, she said, her smile faltering. I don't usually, uh?

Fool around, he supplied. He was nuzzling her throat at the time.

When a woman says that, no one believes it, she said, her hands in his hair, wriggling with pleasure. Especially when it's true. No, I was going to say I'm not usually one for the fast quip and toujours gai.

I'm not sure I care. But why are you doing it, then?

I? guess I didn't expect you to be so uh, compatible, dammit! It scares me a little. A lot.

Here I am hiding behind repartee, because it's not as dangerous as honesty but it's not as satisfying, either. She thrust her fine b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his hands.

Now he was stroking her nipples gently through her blouse, gazing into her face, their open mouths touching as they breathed in unison. He said, I want to do something with you that is very, very satisfying, if I can get my G.o.dd.a.m.n couch unfolded.

So do I, so do I. She crooned it in bittersweet agony. But I will not do it tonight. Don't look at me like that, she pleaded. If you have any idea how possessive a young girl can be, you can imagine how Laurie would hate me if she walked in on us. I want her to like me, Alan!

He had not removed his hands. This wouldn't bother her?

With the pleading, a wicked smile. Kissing she might handle. Fondling, maybe. If we go onto that couch, Alan, I get a triple-X rating.

He let his hands fall away, touched her hair which had fallen to a cascade over hershoulders. b.i.t.c.h, he said fondly. You're right, sure, of course. I want her to like you, too.

s.h.i.t, h.e.l.l, d.a.m.nation. I wanted you for breakfast tomorrow.

I want you right now. For a midnight snack. And I promise? ah, you meant to have breakfast.

You'll drive me berserk. Yeah, pancakes, bacon, all that domestic c.r.a.p.

She drew her hands slowly from his shoulders, letting her formidable nails rake gently down his pectorals, then took his hands in hers. Nothing could be simpler, but I've got to go now. For the sake of all three of us. I'll be back around mid-morning. For breakfast; the three of us. Okay?

With mingled longing and antic.i.p.ation, he agreed; helped her collect her things, enjoyed a head-swimmer of a kiss at his front door and listened to the tic-tac of her quick footfalls to the sidewalk. Then he steeled himself for a call to his ex-wife.

Kathleen was an iced vitriol c.o.c.ktail on the phone, but accepted his story that he'd been interviewing a woman and yes, Laurie had been with them constantly.

He put down the kitchen phone extension, wondering if a bourbon-and-water would make him sleepy enough. The sooner he slept, the less time he would spend waiting for Pamela Garza. One h.e.l.luva day, he decided, was Sat.u.r.day. Could Sunday fail to be better?

He seldom remembered, later, how well Sunday began, with Laurie setting the table and mixing batter while waiting for Pam's arrival; because it all turned to ashes when he began to scan the Sunday paper.

'Georgetown Savant Succ.u.mbs' might have been anyone, but it was Broeck Wintoon.

Found by housekeeper, blah, blah; apparent heart attack at his Chevy Chase house, blah, blah; history of heart trouble, survived by sons, and so on; for years a respected figure, decades of service, author of, et cetera. Stunned, Ramsay walked to his study like an automaton and tried every channel, cursing each sermon and commercial, then calling his own station.

The paper had it all, evidently. Wintoon's seizure must have come on Friday evening, some hours after their meeting. Was there any chance that Ramsay's mad scenario could have brought it on? But h.e.l.l, the old man had spoken of c.o.c.ktails at his club, and a follow-up at leisure. Ramsay was calling an order for a wreath when Laurie answered the door buzzer. It was Pam Garza, with a bottle of crackling non-alcoholic cider.

Pam glanced his way and, misreading his face, a.s.sumed guilt. I've brought some? oh, Alan, did we make a mistake?

He finished the call, took the bottle from Pam, and hugged her while Laurie frowned at the mystery. When he showed them the paper and explained, Pam seemed relieved. If you'd like to talk, I'm a good listener, she said, starting to share the breakfast ch.o.r.es.

He remained morose until halfway through the pancakes. I need to talk to somebody, he admitted then, but I don't want to involve you. Let me worry about that, Alan. I'm not a schoolgirl.

Laurie, around a syrupy mouthful: What's wrong with schoolgirls?

Not a thing, honey. But your dad's responsible for you, and I'm responsible for me.

Never forget that, she said in Ramsay's direction.

He nodded, realizing that Pam Garza was a woman of great pride and self-confidence.

Then he told her of his long friendship with Broeck Wintoon.

Later, while walking off their meal in a nearby park and watching Laurie pump great arcs on a child's swing, Pam remarked, I'm terribly sorry this man's death hit you so hard.

It might not have, he sighed, if I didn't feel that I might've put some stress on him. I picked up an unsubstantiated rumor and asked him about it last Friday. Can't pa.s.s it on now. Sorry, but that's the way it is.

Surely you can't blame yourself for an old man's heart attack!

It was the kind of rumor that spreads guilt around, he said glumly.

Not around you and me, she teased, then saw the long, level look he gave her. I see; maybe we should talk about something else.

So they ambled back to Laurie and proposed a late lunch. Without spoken agreement, the two adults accepted that theirs was to be a conventional courtship, and that it had already begun. Laurie, to Ramsay's surprise, seemed to accept it without rancor.

Pam left them after lunch and, when dropping Laurie off, Ramsay had a brief, defensive talk with Kathleen. He niced himself out in that exchange and did not recover his on-camera affability until shortly before the broadcast.

Afterward, he sped home at a pace that risked a ticket, wondering if his answering machine would have a call from Pam. He found her parked at his garage, dozing, listening to music behind the wheel of the red Honda.

Ushering her into his apartment he asked, Do you realize that I haven't even scrubbed off my makeup or taken off this stupid tie?

I shouldn't be so predictable, she purred, and helped him with the tie. Good luck charm or not, she said, that tie had seen better days. But as it turned out, Alan Ramsay had never known a better night.

It had been many years since a young woman had turned Ramsay's priorities upside down, but he could not deny the facts. He did not attend Wintoon's funeral, and begrudged the time spent on his profession. For a few days and nights he suffered the symptoms of a benign disease best known among the young: romantic love.

Most of his waking moments, he felt feverish. He forgot appointments, changed his mouthwash, cleaned his refrigerator out, and bought new shorts. He changed his sheets every morning and Scotchgarded his couch. And every night he and Pam Garza soiled everything again after late, light dinners, playing out their mutual fantasies.Monday she became his 'casual' pickup in an Ethiopian restaurant in the Adams-Morgan district, but he failed the charade after she asked about Laurie. Tuesday they devoured seafood at the Pompano, later devouring each other on his couch. Wednesday she entered his apartment wearing savage spike heels and, he soon learned, a garter belt in deference to a kink he'd admitted. She wanted him submissive for once, or so she thought, but joyously abandoned the idea after five minutes of satiation with her fully clothed and him dutifully naked. Some victim you are, she said with a pretend pout. I don't think you care who's having who.

He agreed, rolling her over. By the time they fell asleep Wednesday night, each knew virtually every s.e.xual provocation that delighted the other, and they spoke fervently of love. Yet, while Pamela Garza could navigate his apartment in the dark, he still had never seen the Washington apartment she shared with another young career woman. He knew everything she wanted him to know, and nothing more.

He did remember to call Laurie Wednesday evening. He would always treasure that call.

Thursday morning at the studios, he signed for a slender package brought by one of the private messenger services so popular in Washington. Those messengers were sometimes slow to deliver but they were very, very private, and they had not received the package in the mail until Tuesday.

Inside the package was a microca.s.sette from Broeck Wintoon. Ramsay locked his cubicle, stuffed the tiny ca.s.sette into his pocket memocomp with fingers that shook, and stuck the playback unit's earpiece in his ear before playing the tape.

Over the faint background hiss, Wintoon's voice: Well, my lad, I just happened across someone who should know about, shall we say, the sinister machinations of Professor Henry Higgins. And I just happened to bring up your little zinger. Amazing what the old-boy net can do. Apparently the elders have heard the rumor, and we both know they have their own lackeys in trenchcoats.

The rumor is without foundation? I'm almost sorry to say, the voice chuckled. But of course I'm relieved, really. Otherwise, all weekend I'd be cudgeling this old head over it, instead of enjoying my new Grumman canoe. More likely, I'll be swimming in Deep Creek Lake, depending on how well I remember how to handle a one-man rig.

My Lord, how I drone on! At any rate, just thought I'd pop this off to you before I leave.

By the way, this messenger service is a pretty fair cutout too. Remind me to give you their address. And any time I can help, I'm happy to. Be well.

Ramsay hid his face in his hands during the second playback, half in grief, half in concentration. The old man had loved double entendres and jargon. By 'elders' he meant the National Security Council itself. Evidently his informant had been someone attached to that august group, someone well-entrenched in the pipeline, perhaps CIA.

And the Henry Higgins reference had to be from Shaw's play, Pygmalion; the speech teacher who had groomed a student all too well with recording machines? which explained the phrase, 'sinister machinations.' How like Wintoon to discharge a responsibility to a friend, and by a devious route, before charging off to his cabin in western Maryland.

At least, thought Ramsay during his third playback, Broeck Wintoon hadn't sounded edgyor harried. Surely the fatal seizure was not connected with the favor he'd done. Ramsay slipped the microcorder into his pocket and hurried back to the organized bedlam of the studio, leaving one corner of his mind to chew on this message from Broeck Wintoon's grave.

Ramsay was walking off his lunch, watching a frail old woman perform an act of great courage in hurrying across a Washington boulevard, when that tiny mental corner spewed out what he should have realized on Sunday morning. Old Wintoon had set a hot pace up and down those library stairs when an elevator was handy. And canoeing, with a history of heart trouble? Not f.u.c.king likely! Wintoon had been a cautious man, and his physical pace would have been plain insanity for a man who knew he had a heart problem. Maybe his heart had stopped, but had the stoppage been natural?

No, by G.o.d, Ramsay said aloud, and hurried back to his office.

He made a spot decision and called the office of General Nels Magnuson from his office phone. Legal fictions aside, joint chiefs weren't all equal but the Army's Magnuson was the only chief Ramsay had ever got drunk with after NATO exercises. Magnuson was not in, but an aide who valued media was happy to help and made the usual promises.

Ramsay rang off, pocketed spare microca.s.settes for his memocomp, and took another walk.

In the mall parking lot fifty yards from the NBN studios, an unmarked utility van resounded faintly with an internal knock. The van driver craned his head to peer back into the gloom. Got something?

He just called a general at the Pentagon, Bobby.

About what?

Wouldn't say, but my stress a.n.a.lyzer says he's climbing walls. The general was out. Do we wait 'til he's in?

Christ, no! But call it in, first, Harman. If we move without clearance it's your a.s.s and mine both.

The van thrummed away half a block from where Alan Ramsay sat, the Genie's top sealed as he murmured into his memocomp.

SEVEN.

Ramsay's revelation took up less than one complete ca.s.sette. He did not refer to Martin or Alden by name though poor Wintoon could no longer be harmed, and his name added credibility. Ramsay edited the tape until, step by step, he built a d.a.m.ning circ.u.mstantial case. Harrison Rand might be simon pure, and Walter Kalvin an angel of guidance, but some nameless force was ruthlessly seeking the carriers of that rumor. If Alan Ramsay was not already on an erasure list, he expected to get there soon.

He made a copy of the tape before leaving his car and hurried back to the studios seeking postage. In each of the two padded envelopes he placed a tiny ca.s.sette with a note: TO BE MADE PUBLIC IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH, DISAPPEARANCE OR DISABILITY, signed with his legal signature. Luckily he'd entered Alden's address into the memory of his pocket memocomp. It was not luck but premonition that made him leave his name off the studio's return address.

He entrusted the second envelope to the nightly news producer, cautioning Irv to squirrel it away at home and forget it until the day he, Ramsay, became conspicuously unable to do NBN's work. Irv merely nodded, folded the envelope into an inside coat pocket, and made a wry comment about threats from jealous husbands. Ramsay did not enlighten him; the people Broeck Wintoon had contacted did not seem to deal much in threats.

Ramsay had thought himself calm and controlled for his segment of the evening news, describing the plight of Costa Rican families whose sons fought on the Nicaraguan border while death squads stalked those families. Then, unbidden, his mind flashed: Holy G.o.d, there are death squads nearer than Costa Rica; they could gun down my daughter, and viewers saw Alan Ramsay struggle through an instant of what seemed to be sudden stage-fright. He overcame it with rigid self-control, completed his piece, then ran for the nearest telephone.

He reached Kathleen's recorder and blurted, Kathleen, you and Laurie could be in terrible danger! For all I know your line is bugged. Grab the kid now, right this minute, and, and oh h.e.l.l, uh, you know where I proposed? Go there and wait for me to page you or meet you! No police; I'll explain later. Listen, Kathleen: if you still have that little snub-nose equalizer, take it with you? and don't trust any strangers! I apologize to you both, and I'm sorry for this and, and I'll make it up to you. But do it right now, this instant! 'Bye.

He rejected several plans while flogging the Genie toward Kathleen's place. He knew where Laurie's key was hidden. Once inside the condo he could reach Kathleen by phone if she was at work. And he would ransack every drawer until he found the little Smith Wesson she claimed to hate so much. But Ramsay double-parked behind a Metro Police cruiser and, sprinting to the condo, knew he was too late.

Even as he showed his ID to the uniformed cop at the door, he saw past the man's shoulder. Kathleen Ramsay lay sprawled within a neatly taped outline on her living room carpet while a plainclothesman circled her with a video unit. My daughter, he croaked, ignoring the man's question, then shouting: Laurie! Laurie, pudd'n! Where's my kid?

Lieutenant Wayne Corwin, Third District, was a rectangular balding man who dealt well, if brusquely, with stunned citizens. He introduced himself and warned Ramsay against touching the pathetic slender shape that lay face down on the carpet. The only way you can help her now is to let us do our jobs, he said.Then he ushered Ramsay away from the protocols of Homicide forensics and into Kathleen's kitchen. Even though Kathleen had fought, there was very little blood. Both of her head wounds, said Corwin, were probably from a silenced twenty-two caliber handgun at point-blank range because no one had heard shots. Did the victim own such a piece, Mr. Ramsay?