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“Listen here,” Clete said, shaking his index finger in Bondurant’s face. “I won’t have you or anyone criticizing my daughter.”
Ignoring him, Bondurant continued. “She learned early on to cover her own ass, and she had a damned good teacher in you. Vanessa always gives herself top priority, and never so much as when I resigned my White House post. She let me bear the brunt of the gossip about us, never uttering a single word in my defense, never interceding with David on my behalf.”
“So why are you offering to help her now?”
“Patriotism.”
Clete snorted. “Self-aggrandizement is more like it. You’re a hero. Saving the First Lady is an irresistible challenge.”
“Nothing as romantic as that, Clete. An innocent baby is dead. Shouldn’t his killer be punished? I also want closure on my association with David’s presidency. I want it to be over with once and for all, and that’ll never happen until his administration is upended and the ugly underbelly is exposed. And while Vanessa no longer holds my affection, she certainly doesn’t deserve to die.”
“Saint Gray,” Clete said snidely.
Bondurant came to his feet, signaling that he’d done all the haggling he intended to do. He seemed exceptionally strong as he stood over the table. Clete suffered by comparison. The younger man’s sinewy strength made him feel old and soft and weak.
“What’s it going to be, Clete? Do I implement a rescue?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Not good enough. Call Bill Yancey—now—or I disappear, and Vanessa’s life rests in your hands alone. You’re mean and cunning enough, you might defeat David and survive. She won’t.”
Clete never surrendered. Never. But he knew from his football days at Ole Miss when it was prudent to fall back and punt.
* * *
As she was making her way from the fresh grave back to her car, two men fell into step with her, one on each side. “Miss Travis?”
“Yes?”
They showed her their FBI badges. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Now?” she asked incredulously. “In case you haven’t noticed, this is a funeral.”
“We noticed,” one said. “We’re sorry about Mr. Fripp. We’ve had a problem locating you and figured you’d be here.”
“Your insensitivity is unforgivable,” she said.
Pathetically few people had attended the brief, secular service at Howie Fripp’s interment, which was a sad commentary on his life. Almost exclusively, those in attendance were co-workers from WVUE, most of whom had used the funeral as an excuse to take an extra hour at lunch. In chatty groups, they were hurrying back to their cars, having upheld their moral responsibility and now free to socialize on company time.
Barrie’s tears were real. She genuinely felt sad, not only for the horrible way in which Howie had died but because there would be no atonement for the crime and because no one really cared anyway.
One of the agents nudged her from her lament. “Even though this is an inconvenient time, Miss Travis, we’d still like to talk to you.”
“Since you’ve got me surrounded, what choice do I have? But do you mind if we move a little farther from the grave?”
“Not at all.”
When they reached her car, she blotted her eyes one last time and turned to face them. “I told the police everything I know about Mr. Fripp’s murder. They took my statement at the scene.”
“That’s not why we’re here,” one of the agents said.
“No?” she said, pretending to be taken aback and puzzled. “Then what’s this about?”
“Gray Bondurant.”
“Oh, him,” she said in a drop-dead voice. Folding her arms across her chest, she assumed a bored but disgruntled pose. “What do you gentlemen wish to know about our nation’s erstwhile hero?”
