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The senator irritably kicked off the covers, swinging his thick feet and legs to the floor as he sat up. For Barrie Travis to call herself Vanessa’s friend was a real stretch. It was even more of a stretch for her to call herself a reporter. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why Vanessa had granted her the recent interview.
“What do you want?”
“I must talk to you. It’s about Vanessa.”
“Do you know what time it is? How’d you get my private number, anyhow? Didn’t my office staff make it clear to you that I will not discuss my daughter with members of the press?”
“This isn’t that kind of call, sir.”
“Who do you think you’re kidding? Good night.”
“Senator! Please don’t hang up!”
The anxiety in her voice caused him to reconsider. Taking the cordless phone into the bathroom with him, he stood over the toilet and relieved himself. “What’s going on? Another explosion?”
“It’s imperative that I see you.”
“What for?”
“I can’t tell you until I see you.”
He chuckled as he flushed the commode. “I can hardly stand the suspense.”
“I assure you, Senator Armbruster, that this is not a journalist’s trick, nor is it anything to laugh about or to dismiss lightly. Please believe me when I say it’s of the utmost importance. Will you meet me?”
He rubbed his head. “Ah, Christ. I’ll probably live to regret it, but call my office tomorrow and make an appointment.”
“You don’t understand. I need to see you immediately. Right now.”
“Now? It’s the middle of the goddamn night.”
“Please. I’m at a diner in Shinlin, corner of Lincoln Street and Paul’s Meadow Road. I’ll be waiting for you.”
She hung up, and the senator blistered the walls of his bedroom with expletives. Slamming down the telephone, he lowered himself to the edge of the bed and splashed some Jack Daniel’s into a glass. He drank the shot in one swallow and had every intention of ignoring the call and going back to sleep.
But again he hesitated. What the hell could that reporter know about Vanessa that couldn’t wait until morning?
As though it were a mortal enemy, he stared balefully at the telephone. He wouldn’t be able to return to sleep. Besides, there’d been an urgency in her voice that seemed genuine.
He got up and dressed. In ten minutes, he was in his car driving to Shinlin. He knew the town because he’d visited Highpoint so many times. It was mindless driving.
His memory drifted back to another night, eighteen years ago, when he’d been awakened in the middle of the night. He’d been taking a few days’ vacation at his farm in rural Mississippi. The pace of life there was slow and virtually carefree. Except on that night.
He was awakened by an insistent ringing of his doorbell. The housekeeper came from her room behind the kitchen, pulling tight the belt of her robe, but Clete reached the front door first.
David Merritt stood on the threshold, dripping rainwater like a near-drowned cat and looking about as wretched. A lightning flash revealed long, bloody scratches along his cheek.
“What in hell happened to you?” Clete exclaimed.
“I’m sorry to get you up, but I had to see you immediately.”
“What’s wrong? Did you have an accident?”
David glanced apprehensively toward the housekeeper. Clete dismissed her and she returned to her room.
Clete then led David into his study, turned on the shaded desk lamp, and poured the young man a brandy. David sat on the windowseat, cupped the snifter with both hands, and downed the contents in one swallow.
“You usually don’t drink like that,” Clete observed, as he passed David a handkerchief to stanch the bleeding scratches on his face. “Whatever’s eating you must be bad. So, let’s have it.”
