Nelson DeMille - Spencerville

Keith knew, prior to Saturday, that Baxter had not had a tap, legal or illegal, on his phone, because if he had, then Cliff Baxter would have been at Reeves Pond on Saturday, and one of them would be laid out at Gibbs Funeral Home today. But even if there had been no tap on his phone Saturday, there could be one today, and he'd operate on that assumption. In any case, he didn't think he needed to use his phone to finalize or change any plans.

Some weeks ago, when Keith thought he was going to stay around, he had considered buying a cellular phone, and he was also going to call his former colleagues in Washington to do a complete electronic check as well as a search of court records to see if anyone had requested a tap. The National Security Council was as interested in his phone security as he was, though in this case for different reasons.

With that thought in mind, Keith wondered why he hadn't heard a word from anyone in Washington. He didn't care, except that the silence was getting ominous.

By Wednesday afternoon, his self-imposed seclusion was becoming tedious. He wondered about Annie, worried about her, but satisfied himself with the adage that no news was good news, which was not true regarding Washington, and was absolutely contrary to the lessons of the last twenty years of intelligence work.

Later in the afternoon, as he was pruning and splinting the raspberry bushes that had been run over, he threw down his pruning hook and kicked a bushel across the yard. "Damn it!" He didn't like to be confined, self-imposed or otherwise, and he worried about her. He jumped in the Blazer, where his M-16 rifle sat on the passenger seat, and, with his Glock tucked in his belt, he drove out to the road. He sat there, near the mailbox, and finally got himself under control. He drove back to the house.

Keith packed the bare essentials, mostly his personal papers, passport, and a few changes of clothes. He couldn't take the weapons on the aircraft, though he'd take his briefcase with the gadgets and gizmos such as a tear-gas pen, microfilm camera, a graphite knife, and, if you were having a bad day, a cyanide capsule, plus other weird things, none of which he'd ever used, but which he felt obligated not to leave in the house.

He went to the kitchen and realized he was completely out of food, including beer. No one in Spencer County delivered food, as far as he knew, and it was a long time until Saturday morning. He supposed he could impose on Mrs. Jenkins or Mrs. Muller to pick up a few things for him, but he had another idea that would solve three problems at once, and he picked up the phone and dialed the Porters.

Jeffrey answered, and Keith said, "This is the FBI. You're under arrest for advocating the violent overthrow of the United States government."

"I think you want my wife."

"How are you?"

"Fine. Meant to call you..."

"Are you guys free for dinner tonight?"

"Sure. Your place?"

"Right. About seven."

"Looking forward to it."

"Do me a favor, Jeffrey."

"Sure."

"I'm completely out of food, and my car won't start. Could you guys bring everything?"

"Sure."

"And wine."

"No problem."

"And I need some cash."

"Should we bring the dinnerware, too?"

"No, I've got that. Also, can you cash a thousand-dollar check for me?"

"Sure. Hey, a friend of yours stopped by..."

"Tell me about it later."

"No, you want to hear this now..."

"Later. Thanks." He hung up. Annie. It had to be Annie by the tone of Jeffrey's voice. "Good. She's all right, everything is fine." Which solved the problem of finding out if she was all right, and the Porters would bring food and money, which solved the other problems of the moment. There was something uniquely satisfying about beating the bad guys at their own game, but if he didn't put himself in these situations in the first place, he wouldn't have to get out of them, and he might discover that he'd be just as happy mastering chess.

The Porters arrived twenty minutes late, which for ex-hippies was pretty good. Out on the porch, Keith took a canvas bag of herbs from Gail, and Jeffrey carried a cardboard box filled with plastic containers. Gail said, "I cooked everything. We wouldn't eat for hours otherwise. You only have to heat it."

"I think I have a stove."

Inside, Gail said, "What a charming house. You grew up here?"

"I was born and raised here. I haven't grown up yet."

She laughed, and Keith showed them into the kitchen. They put the food down, and Gail said, "Curry In A Hurry."

"Excuse me?"

Jeffrey explained, "In Antioch, they had this great little Indian carry-out place called Curry In A Hurry, and every time Gail doesn't want to cook now, she says, 'Call Curry In A Hurry.' But I don't think they'd deliver to Spencerville."

"Worth a try. Hey, I'm sorry to put you out like this."

Gail replied, "No problem. You owed us dinner, and we're glad to deliver it for you."

Jeffrey went back to the car for the wine. As Gail and Keith found pots and pans, she said, "We brought jumper cables. Didn't you buy that car new?"

"There's nothing wrong with the car."

"Oh. I thought..."

"I'll explain later."

"Maybe I can guess. The fuzz is harassing you."

Keith began setting the table. "You got it."

"That's disgusting. You have to fight back, Keith."

"It's a long story. If you brought enough wine, I'll tell you."

"Okay."

Jeffrey returned with three bottles of red wine, and Keith opened one. He emptied a bottle into three big water glasses. "The stemware is out being monogrammed. Cheers."

They drank, then sat at the kitchen table, where Gail had set out crackers and some sort of multicolored spread. Keith asked, "What's this?"

"Vegetable pate."

"Looks like Play-Doh. Tastes good."

They drank wine, ate, talked, but clearly there were some unanswered questions at the table. Gail related to Jeffrey what Keith said about the police, and Jeffrey remarked, "You can't stay here trapped like an animal."

Gail inquired, "When is the last time you've eaten?"

"Am I being a pig?"

"Keith, this is not like you," Jeffrey said. "You can't let the police intimidate you."

"It's a long story. Hey, how are the sales of True Confessions?"

"Incredible," Jeffrey replied. "Sold five hundred copies already. They're being passed around, so we can assume a few thousand people have read it. That's a lot of people for a small county. I think we have this guy on the run. In fact, that's what I was going to tell you on the phone. Who do you think shows up at our door and asks to buy a copy?"

Keith sipped his wine. "Who?"

"You have to guess."

"Cliff Baxter."

Gail laughed. "Close."

"Come on," Jeffrey said, "I told you it was an old friend of yours."

"Annie Baxter."

"Bingo! Can you believe that?"

"I can."

Gail said, "That took some courage." She smiled at Keith. "She looked good."

"Good."

"In fact, for a woman whose husband is being exposed as a blackmailer, graft-taker, and adulterer, she seemed pretty cooled-out. Almost cheerful."

"Maybe she's got a boyfriend."

Gail observed, "That could explain her mood."

Jeffrey said, "We gave her the transcript for free, of course, and we invited her in. I was surprised she accepted. She had a cup of tea. It was nice talking to her again. We caught up on old times." He added, "I told her you were back, and she said she'd run into you outside the post office."

"Right."

Gail inquired, "Did you feel a little thump-thump?"

"Sure."

"Well; I wouldn't be surprised if she's on the market soon," Gail said. She added, "You know, I felt a little bad. I mean, we never intended to cause problems for her at home, but I guess that was a natural result of what we had to do to get at him. But he brought it on himself."