President's assassin

CHAPTER TWENTY

I parked in the underground garage, and via the elevator ascended up to ground level. It is in the strange nature of females to always plan ahead, and Jennie informed me she had already called and booked us at the Hyatt Regency on Jefferson Davis Highway, which, as you might expect, had a lobby the size of a pro basketball court filled with la-di-da furnishings. A long line of overnighters and businesspeople gripping their briefcases were nonchalantly waiting to check out and shove off for the next town while we waited to check in.

It took a while to reach the head of the line, and we passed our time the way two people do who are on the cusp of first-time sex, or at least seriously thinking about it-a little shy, nervously flirtatious, laughing a little too hard, but at least we weren't panting.

But it could be I was misreading the signals here. It could be that Ms. Margold was just giddy from relief to be away from the hubbub of the investigation and from George. Women are confusing.

Jennie gave her name to the clerk, who punched it into the bowels of her computer. After a moment she looked up, first at Jennie, then at me. She clarified, "Two rooms, right?"

Jennie looked at me and asked the clerk, "Do you have a room with two double beds?"

"Of course."

Back to me, Jennie asked, "Do you mind?"

Did I? "Well… considering the federal debt…"

"I was thinking it would keep either of us from oversleeping." Jennie looked at the clerk. "One room will be fine."

She passed her Bureau charge card across the counter, and while the desk clerk made the necessary adjustments, I stood and contemplated the meaning of this. Two rooms definitely meant breakfast and a nap. One room could mean breakfast and no nap. Alternatively, one room could also mean breakfast, a cold shower, and a nap. I wasn't really sure what I was getting into, or if this was a good idea for either of us.

The magnetic passkey and charge card were passed across the counter, and Jennie informed the clerk, "We're federal agents. We're here on government business. Call the room in four hours, would you?"

I smiled at the young lady, who smiled back, I'm sure thinking how very fortunate our republic was to have such thrift-minded public servants.

We walked across the lobby and entered the elevator without exchanging a word, or even eye contact. Inside the elevator, Jennie said, "Ninth floor," and pushed what I hoped was the appropriate button.

I said, "Nice day, isn't it?"

"Seasonably warm," replied Jennie, staring straight ahead.

Well, this didn't sound like precoital banter.

We left the elevator and found the room with the same number on the door as the number on the envelope the clerk had given her, This was a good start. Jennie stuffed the magnetic key-card in the slot and the door opened.

We stepped inside. The room was expansive, I noted, with two comfy beds, the usual array of chairs, TV, side tables, and an overpowering aura of nervous uncertainty. I walked across the room, removing my coat and tie, which I threw into a messy heap on a chair. Jennie went to the other side of the room, removing her jacket, which she neatly folded and hung carefully on the other chair. I pointed at the Glock and holster on her hip. "I don't think you'll be needing that."

She smiled. "Won't I?"

Interesting. But she removed her holster and pistol and placed them dead center on the writing desk.

I sat on the bed, picked up the phone, and punched the button for room service. I ordered a six-egg western omelet for me, a large dish of fries, a side order of bacon, extra catsup, a pot of coffee, and a pot of tea for the lady. I asked Jennie what she wanted to eat.

"Fruit platter and two strawberry yogurts."

We obviously had different concepts of food, but I passed it along and hung up. I informed Jennie, "Fifteen minutes." I pointed toward the bathroom. "Ladies before gents."

"Oh… there's a gentleman around?" She was casually unbuttoning her blouse and moving toward the bathroom when she added, "I'll be quick. Don't fall asleep," which was also interesting.

I put on the TV and switched to Fox News, which offers only "News that is fair and balanced" which somehow is different from "All the news that's fit to print," whatever that means. A commercial was running, and some old guy I thought I recognized was talking about erectile dysfunction, which at that moment was not really my problem. I could hear the shower running and Jennie humming.

It was funny, I thought, how much first-time sex and battle have in common, the same air of tension and anxiety, where everybody's uncertain about the outcome or even whether they really want to be there.

The bathroom door opened, and out stepped Jennie wearing no more than a fluffy white towel and her birthday suit. She walked straight to a window, turned her back to me, and stared down at the street as she used a second towel to dry her hair.

Being a perfect gentleman, I naturally turned my head and averted my eyes, at least until the instant she had her back turned. Then I peeked. In fact Agent Margold was the pride of the FBI gym, had nicer legs than I had imagined, wider shoulders, and not an ounce of flab I could see. Her skin was creamy white, although I noted a number of small scars on her arms and legs, some of which appeared to be burn marks, others were abrasions. But all in all, Jennie had nothing to be ashamed of, and I felt a strange tingling sensation in my stomach, or perhaps a little lower. She looked over her shoulder and mentioned, "I left the water running for you." She threw the towel she'd used to dry her hair in my face. "Hurry."

I went into the bathroom, stripped out of my shoes, socks, ridiculously expensive Brooks Brothers dress shirt and pants, and stepped into the shower. A minute later, I was all lathered up when I heard the door open. Through the glass I saw Jennie step into the bathroom. I don't really like showering alone and said, "Can you do my back?"

She laughed. "The food's at the door. My wallet's in here."

"Then I'll do my own back."

"Maybe another time." She left with her wallet. Goodness.

I emerged from the bathroom three minutes later, with a towel wrapped around my midsection. Jennie was seated on the far bed, stripping the skin off a banana, which is always a little suggestive, and was still wearing no more than a towel, which is better yet.

The cart was parked between the two double beds, and I sat on the other bed and poured myself a cup of coffee. So there we were, two mostly naked people in a hotel room with four hours to kill, separated by nothing more than three feet, a foodcart and, possibly, differing intentions. But truly there is a Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, and food is higher on the list than sex, though not always.

Jennie pointed at the TV "Did you see any updates about the murders?"

"I saw some guy talking about something called sexual dysfunction."

"Is that a problem for you?"

"Absolutely not."

"You're sure?"

"I have the other problem."

She smiled." I meant a problem with commercials about sexual dysfunction, contraceptives, or feminine hygiene products?"

I smiled and dug into the fries.

She asked, "Does it make you nervous to talk about sex?"

I replied, "Have you seen any good movies lately?"

"It's a perfectly healthy topic, you know. Men can be a little strange about it. Adults should be open about these things."

"My thoughts exactly. So… are you a Democrat or a Republican?"

"You're weird."

She reached over and turned on the radio, moved the dial around a while, and settled on a station playing a romantic ballad by Pete Seeger.

I finished my omelet.

She said, "I love this song." She stretched and added, "I need to lay down."

So she lay back on her bed, I polished off the fries, and I lay back on mine. After a moment, I asked her, "Where did all those scars come from?"

"I was quite the tomboy when I was younger."

"You should've stuck to skirts and dolls."

"Yeah, well, you should see the other guy."

"Right."

Silence.

Eventually, Jennie said, "This is… a little uncomfortable, isn't it? Should we have gotten two rooms?"

"Well, what can I say? We're partners."

"I don't often do this… even with partners."

"I hope not."

Silence.

I said, "Why aren't you married?"

"Why should I be?"

"Elizabeth thinks you should be married. Elizabeth thinks you should have a house in a burb, and ten kids screaming in the back of a red stretch minivan."

"Elizabeth should mind her own business." After a moment she asked, "What about you?"

"Ask Elizabeth."

She laughed.

She turned on her side and faced me. "Look, I enjoy you as a partner. You're very smart and very quick. I also think we've become friends."

"Right. I think-"

"Shut up. Let me finish. We've only known each other a day. It's been a very long and tense day, and… both our emotions are running high. If we… well, if we take the next step… and I'll admit I'm thinking about it, too… Sean, I don't do this casually."

"That's not what Elizabeth told me."

A strawberry bounced off my forehead. "Cut it out."

"I always send flowers."

She smiled. I thought we were on the cusp of something. Maybe. So far, I had been the perfect gentleman. I had put down the toilet seat, and even taken the other bed. I don't believe in throwing myself at women, and she was telling me she didn't believe in throwing herself at men, which meant one of us had to get over it and make the first move, or we'd both walk out of here with our beliefs intact. So, going where no man had gone before-or I hoped very few-I stood up and took a step toward her bed.

Suddenly we both heard a loud bleeping sound.

We looked into each other's eyes a moment. She said, "It's mine."

"No-they're both going off."

"Shit." We raced back to our clothes and scrambled around for our cell phones. Jennie found hers first. "Margold."

I got mine. "Drummond."

Phyllis was on the line. "Where are you?" she asked.

"I'm… nearby."

"They… they struck again. It's very bad, Sean."

I had assumed so from her tone. In fact, her voice sounded shaky, and I thought she had been crying. "Tell me about it."

"Well, we… we should have considered… but we didn't. It's the one thing we weren't guarding against."

It suddenly hit me. "The families."

Phyllis said nothing, which said everything.

"Whose?"

"It's… they… Mark Townsend's wife."

"Shit." I felt really stupid. Worse, I felt terrible. Why hadn't I figured this out before?

Phyllis said, "Please, get there right away It's important for Mark to know, at this moment, that we in the Agency… that we.. "

A long silence ensued while Phyllis discovered what she wanted to say. Eventually, she informed me, "I've known Mark and Joan nearly two decades. They have a daughter in college… Janice. I've… well, we're very…"

"I'm on my way. I will find these people, Phyllis."

"Do that. I mean it." She hung up.

I began dressing. Jennie was pulling up her pants with one hand, and with the other she held the phone to her ear and listened to the details of what had happened, and where.

I already knew what had happened. Literally and figuratively, we'd been caught with our pants down. Too late, I realized what had been gnawing at me. For Jason Barnes, this was a vendetta- both personal and borderless-like the Hatfields and McCoys, a blood feud with lines of vengeance that radiated beyond the government officials he believed had wronged his father. Barnes was a man of faith, a fundamentalist par excellence; he would subscribe to a biblical retribution, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth; a mother for a father and a parent for an angry son.