T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

Apprehensive and utterly isolated, she began pulling her mast from the water. Her position in the cove was suddenly very hazardous, out of other storm sailors’ sight, in a wind strong enough to drown out her screams.

Jackie gripped the boom and swept the sail about, seeking a pocket of wind to cast her away. But the trees and untamed shrub were too effective a wind block. She was about to give up and fling herself into the water when the motor craft swung broadside and the man shouted across, “Are you JackieH at Juno.com?”

The query was so ludicrous she let the boom fall without thinking. “What?”

“JackieH at Juno.com!” He was young and his voice high-pitched. More than that she could not tell over the motor’s idling roar. He was ridiculously muffled in a floppy fishing hat pulled low, sunglasses, and a windbreaker with the zipper pulled up to his chin. All she could see clearly were his pale nose and mouth. And bone-white hands that knew nothing about holding a boat steady. “Is that you?”

When she gaped and nodded in response, he cut the motor with the boat still broadside to the chop. It was an expensive rental, an overpowered OMC inboard-outboard. He was far enough beyond the cove’s shelter for the next wave to almost pitch him headlong over the side. Jackie found herself relieved by his evident alarm. “Start your engine and put it one notch above idle, then steer directly into the wind.”

As he fumbled and struggled to follow her instructions, she settled back onto her board. “Now back into the cove, no, don’t turn the boat around, just put the boat into reverse.”

But the young man showed no desire to approach any closer than where he was. Instead he left the motor running, oversteering and unsettled by the chop. Over the wind and the motor he called, “Why are you interested in certain people and companies?”

Again she had no choice but gape in reply. The young man expected nothing more. “You’re already in danger! There’s only one way to survive, are you hearing me, JackieH?”

“Yes.”

“Keep searching under your current internet address and find nothing. Then take on a second name with a different server system and use another name as both ID and payee.”

She thought she detected an accent but couldn’t be certain. “Why?”

“Use a secure phone for your hookups. Your home line is either tapped or will be soon. When you’re established, go to the website Trastevere.” He spelled it out. “Can you remember that?”

“Who are you?”

“This is vital!” His shriek carried the strain of more than the present tempest. “Trastevere website. Leave me a message.” He paused for a moment, pressed the sunglasses up tight to his nose, continued, “Address it to the Boatman.”

“Wait. I need to know-”

But the young man revved the motor and blasted away, almost tumbling over the back of his seat in the takeoff. Jackie was left to the isolation of a confused and storm-tossed day.

Wednesday

Wynn arrived at Senator Trilling’s office still fuming over his meeting with Jackson Taylor. It did not help matters to find the ranking senator from California housed in chambers that were positively palatial compared to his own. “Congressman Bryant?”

“That’s right.”

“Kay Trilling. Are you alone?”

“Is there a problem with that?”

“As far as I’m concerned, no. But few people in elected office go anywhere around here by themselves.” Her tone was so clipped the words sounded razored. “There’s always the risk of being caught and compromised, or having the press claim you said something you can’t deny.”

“Which means I’ve just made another beginner’s blunder.” Not bothering to keep the bitterness from his voice.

She bobbed her head, perhaps to hide a smile. “This way, please.”

Trilling was black, rail-thin, extremely well dressed, and tough. She led him into her private office, shut the door, and continued, “I miss Graham Hutchings terribly. Personally as well as politically. We were in a prayer group together. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in joining us.”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind.” She gestured to her associate, a handsome silent man with the aquiline features of an Arab or North African. “This is Nabil Saad, an intern seconded to my office by the World Bank.”

Evidently the senator commanded a more senior staff than a mere congressman. “I had the impression you wanted to speak to me about something urgent.”

“That is correct. Hutchings and I were to have worked together on a Conference Committee. I don’t suppose you know anything about this.”

“Not a thing.”

Little worry lines invaded her polished image, creasing out from her mouth in rays of subsurface strain. “This is not good. The committee is a joint House-Senate group intended to reconcile two conflicting versions of the same legislation. There is a big appropriations bill coming up, very critical to both sides, over a thousand pages to cover.”

Wynn sensed the room’s tension converging about him. Two pairs of eyes, one feminine and Western, one dark and very Arab, carefully measured his reaction. Trilling went on, “One of the issues we intend to cover is known as the Jubilee Amendment.”

“Right.” So this was more of the same. Everybody probing, looking for the deal. Making sure he was bought and paid for. “Of course.”

“You’ve heard of it, then.”

“All I know is, a lot of people want to see this thing dead and gone.” Wynn rose to his feet. “Whoever appears next on your list, tell them I’ve already gotten the message.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, I think you do. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lifetime of catch-up waiting back at the office.”

Trilling did not rise so much as uncoil, her lips pursed so tightly now the creases ran up both sides of her nose. “Quite frankly, Congressman, I find your manner disappointing. This is a critical issue.”

“Aren’t they all.”

“Don’t you even want to know where we stand?”

“Couldn’t care less.”

She moved swiftly, blocked the door with her body, and hissed, “I don’t know who you think you are, mister, but a warning to the wise. I’ve dined on upstart freshman from both chambers for years.”

Wynn jerked on the doorknob, giving her a choice to move out of the way or be knocked flat. He said in parting, “I’ve always despised politicians who’ve grown slick as bazaar salesmen.”

“I’ll make sure you regret your attitude and your words both.”

“Not near as much,” Wynn replied, already crossing the outer office, “as I regret being here at all.”

Wynn reentered the sunlight, still smoldering. He searched his pockets and pulled out his cellphone, then grew angrier still at how natural the action was. He had not used one since his wife died, not since the sale of his company, not since his last day in court. All three soul-wrenching blows had come in the same month, and in that order.

He and Dianne had been filing the separation papers when she was taken ill. Wynn had returned home and played the dedicated husband for eleven grueling months. Esther Hutchings, Dianne’s closest friend, had been one of the few who had not approved of his actions. Of course, nothing Wynn could do would ever have been proper in Esther’s eyes. She had loathed him with undisguised bitterness, and at Dianne’s funeral had publicly accused him of causing his wife’s death. Two weeks after the funeral, Jackson Taylor had finally made a firm offer for Wynn’s company. Wynn had never thought making money could be so hard, never understood all the warnings about the price of success. Not until the day he had signed the documents, then turned up in court to hear his attorneys announce they were dropping all charges. Wynn had found himself wishing there were some way to shout his denial. He had walked away from the courtroom a free and solitary man, with utterly nothing to fill his days or his soul’s gaping wounds. Swearing then and there he would never care so much for anything ever again.