Ties That Bind

Chapter Three.

The caterers were packing up and the band had already left when Harold Travis said good-bye to the last of the guests who were not on the special-contributors list. Those four men were lounging in the den, smoking Cuban cigars and sipping 1934 Taylor Fladgate port. They were also making the acquaintance of some special ladies who were going to give them an erotic thank-you for their illegal campaign contributions to the man who would soon be the Republican nominee for president of the United States.

The fund-raiser had been held in the countryside, miles from Portland, in a seventeen-thousand-square-foot octagonal house; one of four owned by the chairman of the board of a California biotech company, who was in the master bedroom with a stunning Eurasian beauty. Moments after the taillights of the caterer's van faded away, Travis nodded to one of several bodyguards who had moved among the guests inconspicuously during the evening. When the guard began speaking into his cell phone, Travis crossed the lawn and lay down on a lounge chair at the edge of the swimming pool. The house lights reflected in the dark water, floating ghostlike in the ripples caused by the breeze. It was the senator's first moment alone in hours, and he savored the quiet.

All of the party's biggest contributors were lining up now that Chester Whipple was out of the race. If the newspapers had been caught off guard by his sudden withdrawal, they were stunned by the vote he'd used to block the anti-cloning bill, which he had supported with religious fervor. Whipple's supporters were forced to back Travis now, if they wanted to have any influence in the White House. The senator was making it easy for them. He had fought the anti-cloning bill behind the scenes, using front men to do the dirty work, and he was solidly conservative on most of the other issues Whipple's people favored.

Travis closed his eyes and imagined his victory in November. The Democrats were in disarray. They didn't even have a clear front-runner in the primaries, let alone someone who would threaten him in the general election. The presidency was his for the taking.

"They're pulling up, Senator."

Travis had been so absorbed in his thoughts that he had not heard the bodyguard approach. He followed the man to the front of the house. A black Porsche was just rounding the last turn in the long driveway. Travis grew hard with anticipation and did not notice Ally Bennett, a dark-haired woman in a short black evening dress, who also watched the arrival of the Porsche from the front door.

When the car stopped, the bodyguard opened the passenger door, and Lori Andrews, a slender blonde, got out. She looked around nervously. The heat rose in the senator's cheeks and groin, making him feel like a horny teenager who was about to get laid for the first time.

Jon Dupre, a handsome young man dressed in jeans, a tight black T-shirt, and a white silk jacket got out of the driver's side of the Porsche and walked over to Travis. Ally Bennett walked to his side and smiled at Lori.

"Special delivery as requested, Senator," Dupre said, flashing a cocky smile.

"Thank you, Jon."

When Lori saw the senator, the blood drained from her face. Andrews was frail and tiny, and looked as if she'd just recently hit puberty, even though she was a mother in her early twenties. Lori's parents were hard-nosed farmers who had kicked her out when they learned that she was pregnant. She hadn't finished high school, she was not particularly bright, and her looks were all she had going for her. Jon Dupre had taken her off the streets, cleaned her and fed her, and added her to his stable, because he knew that she would do anything to keep her daughter, Stacey, safe and warm. Fear and necessity had made her Jon's slave, but that was going to change. She knew that she and Stacey would be free soon. Until that happened, she had to do what Jon commanded, but she never dreamed that Jon would make her go with the senator again, especially after the last time.

Lori grabbed her pimp's sleeve. "Please, Jon."

"What's the matter?" asked Ally Bennett as she slipped a miniature cassette into Dupre's hand. He pocketed it quickly.

"He's the one," Lori said.

Ally looked blank for a second. Then she understood. She stepped in front of Dupre, blocking his path to the senator.

"You can't, Jon. Please," Ally begged.

"It's out of my hands," Dupre answered.

"You're a real bastard."

Dupre looked embarrassed. Before he could answer, Travis said, "Aren't you supposed to be in the den?"

Travis nodded to one of the bodyguards. "Get her out of here."

The bodyguard took hold of Ally's elbow.

"Let go of me," Ally said angrily. She tried to pull away but the guard's grip was too strong.

"I'm sorry," Ally told Lori as she was led into the house.

"I thought you were bringing your best girls," Travis snapped.

"Ally is great," Dupre assured him. "She'll be terrific."

"She'd better be," Travis said. Then he nodded to another man who had been quietly smoking in the shadows at the side of the house. The man walked into the light. He was dark-skinned, wiry, and of average height. His short-sleeved shirt showed off muscular arms covered by threatening tattoos. The man's face was flat and pockmarked; his brown eyes were lifeless. A slight mustache covered his upper lip.

" Buenos noches,Lori," he said in a sweet voice that belied his hard looks. "Once again, I will be your driver."

Lori's hand flew to her mouth.

"Come, chiquita. "

She cast a pleading look at Dupre, but he would not meet her eye.

"What about one of the other girls," he suggested to Travis, a slight quaver in his voice.

"Don't you have enough trouble without pissing me off?" the senator answered angrily before turning his back on Dupre and walking into the house.

"Manuel," Dupre said to the man who was standing next to Lori, "can't you do anything?"

"Who am I to stand in the way of true love?"

"He's a fucking psycho," Dupre said, lowering his voice so that only he, Manuel, and Lori could hear. Manuel nodded his head toward Andrews.

"She's just pussy, man. Harold is gonna be the head of the FBI, the CIA, the DEA, and a lot of other letters in the alphabet that can fuck up both of us. That's not a man you want to annoy."

Reality set in and Dupre swallowed. When he turned to Lori, he tried to look reassuring.

"I'm sorry, kid. There's nothing I can do."

Lori looked sick. Manuel took her by the arm and led her toward a waiting car. As they faded into the dark, Dupre touched the cassette through the fabric of his coat. Manuel was right. He was out on bail, and his lawyer wasn't too sure about the outcome of his case. He needed friends in high places, and there wasn't any place higher than the White House.

Harold Travis uncurled his clenched fists and noticed that they were covered in blood. How had that happened? He remembered the girl fleeing the bedroom. My, she was fast. Her little rump had been tight and her little breasts had jiggled when she jumped across the bed. He'd let her think she could get away before catching her in the living room. He remembered leaping over the couch and grabbing a fistful of hair, but the rest was a blur. Now, Andrews was sprawled on the floor, her head turned at an odd angle and surrounded by a halo of blood. What a waste.

Travis closed his eyes and took slow, deep breaths. When he opened his eyes, he felt calmer and better able to evaluate the situation. No need to get excited, he convinced himself. This was just a tragic accident. The girl must have hit her head on the baseboard and snapped her neck or some such thing. Accidents happened every day. It wasn't his fault if the girl met with an accident. The phrase itself flooded him with relief. "Met with an accident" was exactly what she'd done. The little blonde was in the living room, and an accident was in the living room, and they'd met, that's all. It had nothing to do with him.

Travis caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. It startled him. Blood had turned some of his curly black chest hairs red, and there was spatter on his cheeks and forehead. What a mess.

What to do? What to do? Take a shower, of course, but what about the body? He wasn't going to risk getting caught moving it, which meant that he'd have to have Pedro Aragon's man--Manuel--take care of it. Shower first or call Manuel first, that was the question. There was the sticky problem of getting blood all over the phone, so Travis compromised. He headed for the kitchen sink. It felt good to walk naked through the house. He was in his late forties, but his body was still firm, powerful. He liked feeling strong and sexually potent.

Travis continued to consider his options as he washed his hands. Manuel had been very efficient that other time. Of course, he only had to take the girl to the hospital and threaten her a little, then pay her something extra. There hadn't been a body to dispose of, or a room to clean. And the downside of using one of Aragon's men was that Manuel would tell Pedro, and Pedro'd tell the others, but it couldn't be helped. He was certain that they would call him on the carpet, as they had before. He smiled as he remembered how they had berated him. He'd hung his head and acted contrite, but inside he'd been laughing. Let them save face, let them think that they were in charge. He was the United States senator. He was the one who would soon be the president of the United States.