"That long?" Pleased to hear it, my reply came out more enthusiastic than I"d intended. "Did you keep in touch? Letters? Phone calls?"
"Not so much. Not until he e-mailed me about you coming back. He sent it to my station address. It was all business, you know? He wanted to know if I"d be covering your speech at the high school. Which reminds me . . ."
Reaching across the table, she squeezed my hands and smiled one of her patented Jana smiles-an array of white pearls set between a parentheses of adorable dimples. It was the kind of smile that could stop a battalion of marines.
"I haven"t congratulated you properly for your achievement! I"m so proud of you, I could bust! I"ve told everyone I know that I went to school with a Pulitzer Prizewinning author!"
She was more gorgeous than I"d remembered. Had her praise been a drug, I"d be an addict. The only thing that could have possibly made the moment sweeter would be if Myles Shepherd had been here to hear it.
"Was Myles excited about your achievement?" she asked.
"You know Myles. He congratulated me in his own way."
Jana laughed. "He was a man of few compliments, wasn"t he? Sometimes you never knew if he was praising you or mocking you."
"Yeah, Myles could be strange at times." Here was the opening I"d been waiting for. "Speaking of which, when you were going out with him, did you notice anything . . . you know, out of the ordinary? Weird? Strange?"
Jana"s smile melted faster than b.u.t.ter on a hot skillet. She pulled her hands away. "Please don"t do that, Grant. Not now." She sat back and stared sullenly at her tea, then took a long sip as though she could swallow the uncomfortable moment and it would be gone.
But I couldn"t let it go that easily. I had to know what she knew about Myles Shepherd after high school. "In college, did Myles ever do anything that was . . . well, off the deep end? Possibly involve himself with a radical fringe group? Did he experiment with drugs?"
Her teacup clanked angrily against the saucer. "Why do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"That thing you do with Myles. Everything has to be a compet.i.tion between you." Fresh tears filled her eyes. "Well, it can stop now, Grant. Myles is no longer a threat to you. He"s dead."
"No, Jana, it"s not what you think." I reached across the table with open hands. They remained empty. "Something happened yesterday with Myles that I can"t explain. That"s why I was going to see him this morning. I was hoping to clear it up. It"s not personal . . . well, that"s not exactly true . . . there is a personal element involved . . . but it"s not what you think."
My eloquent argument failed to convince her.
"Exactly what happened yesterday?" she asked.
Of all the words in the English language, why did she have to choose those four? What was I supposed to tell her? That Myles glued my feet to the floor? That I saw him magically strip colors and t.i.tles from things in his office? That he had malevolent gargoyles living on his ceiling?
A warning alarm sounded in my mind. Neither could I tell her about Myles"s possible involvement in an a.s.sa.s.sination plot against the president. She might be a friend, but she was also a news reporter for a television station.
"Well? Are you going to tell me?"
My internal waffling had raised her suspicions. "I can"t," I said.
She took it personally. Gone were her happy-reunion eyes. She was hurt.
"Jana, I want to tell you," I insisted. "It"s just that . . ." My cell phone rang. "Hail to the Chief."
My eyes on Jana, I made no move to answer it.
"Answer your phone," she said angrily.
"Hail to the Chief" began attracting the attention of the other patrons.
"I"ve got to take this," I said.
She turned her head, staring out the window at the parking lot so I wouldn"t see how upset she was. She couldn"t hide the reflection in the window.
I flipped open my cell phone. "Christina-" I said.
"Grant Austin, where have you been? First, you broadcast emergency messages all over Capitol Hill, then you go into hiding! What"s going on?" She spoke in hushed tones, as though she was afraid someone might overhear her.
"Christina, we have to talk."
Jana"s eyebrows rose.
There was a long pause on the other end of the line.
"All right. But make it quick." I heard panic in her voice. Christina never panicked. I"ve seen her stand in front of a roomful of heads of state and show no fear.
"I can"t talk now," I said, glancing at Jana.
Jana"s brow furrowed. She began gathering her things. "Don"t let me get in your way," she huffed.
She slid out of the booth.
"Who"s there with you?"
"Jana . . . please don"t go," I begged. "This isn"t what you think it is."
"Who"s Jana?"
I reached for Jana as she pa.s.sed. She dodged my hand. "Jana, please! Christina, can you hold on just a second?"
Jana walked up to Alida, the waitress. "Can you help me out? I need a cab."
"You got it, dear," Alida said, diving beneath the counter and pulling out a phonebook like she was on some kind of mission for the holy sisterhood.
Jana continued toward the door, pulling her cell phone from her purse.
"Christina, I need to call you back," I said, climbing out of the booth.
"Grant, no! You don"t know what"s going on here! Don"t call me back. Do you understand? Under no circ.u.mstances are you to call me!"
I"ve never heard Christina so shaken. "What"s going on there?" I asked.
Silence. The display on my cell indicated the call had ended. Shoving the phone into my pocket, I went after Jana.
"Hold on there, buddy," Alida said, blocking my path. "Somebody"s got to pay the tab."
"I"ll be right back. Just let me . . ." I pointed at the door.
I tried to step around her. She moved to block me, shouting toward the kitchen. "Jorge! We got a deadbeat out here trying to skip out on his bill!"
The kitchen door swung open. A mean-looking, heavily tattooed cook walked out. If it was Jorge, I knew I didn"t want to tangle with him.
"All right . . . how much?" I cried.
Through the plate-gla.s.s window I could see Jana standing in the parking lot, her arms folded.
Alida pulled out her pad. "Let"s see . . . the lady had a tea with lemon. The gentleman . . ." She spoke the word like it was an obscenity. ". . . had a coffee." She looked up. "Was that one cup or two?"
"Here," I said, slapping a ten-dollar bill on top of her pad. "That should cover it."
I don"t know how a cab got there so quickly, but while I raced the length of the coffee shop, through the window I could see Jana climbing into the backseat. By the time I was out the door, the cab was pulling out of the parking lot. The last I saw of Jana was the back of her head in the cab"s rear window.
The door to Bruno"s opened behind me. Waitress Alida watched Jana"s departure with an expression of mission accomplished. "Hey, prize winner," she said. "Do you want your change?"
I knew she didn"t mean it.
CHAPTER 5.
Weariness wrapped itself around my shoulders like a shawl as I drove west on Interstate 8 toward my hotel. I hadn"t slept in over twenty-four hours.
In that time I"d delivered a speech to an a.s.sembly of high school students who didn"t want to hear it, endured the usual badgering of reporters at a press conference, been a.s.saulted by an old cla.s.smate with some kind of voodoo or psychedelic drug, learned of a possible plot to a.s.sa.s.sinate the president of the United States, spent the night in a parking lot chatting with East Coast answering machines, witnessed a fiery death on a freeway, thought I saw a ghost, and managed to infuriate a former girlfriend.
"Not a bad day"s work," I muttered.
Before leaving the restaurant parking lot, I"d tried to reconnect with Christina. She wasn"t answering. This time there wasn"t so much as an answering machine. She must have turned her phone off.
I also tried Chief of Staff Ingraham"s number and got his secretary, Margaret. Finally, I thought, I was getting somewhere! Margaret liked me. She"d told me I reminded her of her little brother.
Apparently her little brother had ticked her off recently, because the voice on the other end of the line was very cold and very professional. Biting off the end of each word, Margaret informed me that Mr. Ingraham would not be available for the rest of the day, nor was it likely he"d be available to take my calls anytime soon.
Desperate now, I dialed the president"s private cell phone again. Even the phone company"s computerized voice sounded miffed that I was calling again.
Lack of sleep was catching up with me. Like a horse at the end of a long journey, I headed mindlessly for the barn-the barn being the Red Lion Inn at Hotel Circle in Mission Valley.
I was functioning in three-word sentences. Take a shower. Order room service. Grab some sleep.
After my batteries were recharged I figured I"d fire up the laptop, jump online, and see if I could find some answers about Myles Shepherd and exactly what happened in his office.
I didn"t have much to work with-a name and an experience I"m not sure I could put into words-but I"d started projects with less and researching was what I was good at.
With a game plan established I settled back and enjoyed the ride on rented genuine leather seats. In Washington my car was a rusting Ford Taurus that felt like it was kicking you in the pants every time it shifted into third gear.
Familiar landmarks whizzed past me. Grossmont Shopping Center. The community hospital. Freeway exit signs-Jackson Drive, Fletcher Parkway, College Avenue.
"Of course!"
I sat up so fast I nearly changed lanes, coming close to hitting a pest patrol truck beside me. Shrugging an apology, I filtered through the traffic toward the exit. Within moments I was swallowed up by the campus of San Diego State University with parking structures on one side and hillside cla.s.srooms on the other.
Despite the advances the Internet had made over the last few years for anyone doing serious research, cybers.p.a.ce still couldn"t hold a candle to a determined, old-fashioned research librarian. My shower, nap, and room service would have to wait.
I descended the curved stairway into the subterranean atrium of San Diego State University library. Sunlight through the dome cast geometric shadows on the steps.
Approaching the circulation counter, I interrupted a coed in pigtails for directions to the research library. She glanced up from a copy of Schopenhauer"s The World as Will and Representation, cracked her gum, and pointed down a wide pa.s.sageway.
The underground hallway led to the heart of the facility, several stories" worth of books and periodicals. To get there, I pa.s.sed a row of gla.s.s cases featuring Indian artifacts from archaeological digs in Old Town, early San Diego.
The displays might as well have been mermaid sirens calling to me. There was no way I could walk by them without stopping to read the information cards.
I loved this stuff.
I breathed in the surroundings-the displays, the carpets, the photos, the books, the air-conditioning. This was my turf. This was where I felt most at home.
Most people don"t understand what a library does for me and I"ve given up trying to explain it to them. All I know is that I feel energized when I"m in one. My pulse quickens when I walk through the stacks. I feel like an explorer surveying an uncharted sh.o.r.e. Lost worlds are here waiting to be discovered. Ancient worlds; once glorious, now crumbled. Future worlds; no more substantial than the numbers or ideas or words of those who dream them. Mythical worlds. Worlds of limitless dimensions.
Libraries are medieval forests masking opportunity and danger; every aisle is a path, every catalog reference a clue to the location of the Holy Grail. It is here that I become privy to the sacred songs of kings and the ballads of rogues. Here are tales of life-and-death struggles of other wayfarers as they battle personal dragons and woo fair maidens.
Walking down this hallway, I am a knight entering the forest in search of truth-the truth about Myles Shepherd and that carnival ride of sensations in his office; the truth about his involvement in the plot to a.s.sa.s.sinate the president; the truth about his death.
Having reached the research library, I went in.
"Grant Austin!"
My name echoed through the cavernous room. Every head in the library turned and looked at me.
The surprising thing about the outburst was that it prompted no immediate shushing from the library staff. For good reason. It was the reference librarian who was making all the noise.
She was a short, middle-aged woman wearing a long-sleeved white blouse and a man"s black tie. Like a teenybopper catching sight of a rock star, she rounded the end of the counter and came toward me, her eyes electrified. "I can"t believe it"s actually you!" she gushed. "This is such an honor, Mr. Austin! Such an honor!" She rose up and down on her tiptoes as she spoke, her interlaced fingers punctuating every syllable.
A pleated black skirt, white socks, and black patent-leather shoes completed her retro fashion statement. She didn"t have the knees for it.
Before I could reply to her boisterous greeting, her expression clouded over. "Oh . . . please tell me you"re not here for a signing!" she cried. "Please, please, please don"t tell me that! Because if you are . . . well, they"re not going to hang this one on me! You have to believe me, Mr. Austin, there is no way on G.o.d"s green earth that I would miss a memo announcing a signing if your name was on it!"
"I"m not here for a signing," I a.s.sured her.
The woman"s shoulders slumped in exaggerated relief. "Thank goodness! I can"t tell you how glad I am to hear you say that!"
"Actually, I"m here to do a little research. Is there someone available who could a.s.sist me?"
Pressing one hand against her bosom as though she was taking a solemn vow, she touched my arm with the other hand. "Oh, Mr. Austin . . . it would be an honor . . . an honor, sir . . . to a.s.sist you," she gushed.