David Morrell - The Covenant Of The Flame

On the Trump Shuttle 727 to Washington, Tess did her best to ignore the drone of the engines and concentrate on her priorities. She always felt discomfort after take-offs and now rubbed her forehead while she opened and closed her mouth, trying to relieve the aching pressure in her sinuses and behind her ears. Nonetheless the photographs in her purse insisted. She wanted to seem casual, however. Not attract attention. Be cool. She was still disturbed that someone had tried to steal the pictures. Only after glancing at the passenger next to her did she decide to open her purse. The passenger was reading USA Today , the front-page sidebar of which said that a third of all species of North American fish were in danger of extermination. The next paragraph indicated that for every tree that was planted, four others were killed by acid rain, dried streams, or commercial development.

Angered by the article, her frustration intensifying, she opened her purse, removed the package of photographs, and studied them. The closeups of the titles on Joseph's bookcase immediately attracted her attention.

With equal immediacy, she noticed that the seatbelt sign was off and stood to walk up the aisle toward a row of phones mounted on the bulkhead at the front of the cabin. Using her credit card, she put a call through to New York and her favorite book store, the Strand, on lower Broadway.

'Lester? How's it going? Me? How'd you guess? Is my voice that distinctive? Well, yeah, a little fuzzy. I'm on a plane to Washington. No, just family business. Listen, can you do me a favor? I assume my credit's still good. It better be good. I drop a fortune in your store every month. So pay attention, okay? I've got a list. Are you ready?'

'Always, sweetheart. Anytime you want to…'

'Lester, will you give me a break?'

'Just trying to be friendly, my dear. Let's hear the titles.'

' The Consolation of Philosophy, The Collected Dialogues of Plato, The Millennium, Eleanor of Aquitane, The Art of Courtly Love , something in Spanish called The Circle of the Neck of the Dove .'

'Never heard of that one, dear.'

'Well, I've got plenty more.' Tess recited them.

'No authors, sweetheart?'

'From what I'm looking at, I can barely read the titles, let alone…'

'You sound in stress.'

'Stress? You don't know the half of it. Just get me those books as soon as possible.'

'Got it, sweetheart. I'll check our stacks. As you're well aware, we've got just about everything.'

'Send them to…' Tess almost said her loft in SoHo, but all at once, suspicious, remembering the incident at the photo shop, she told him the address for Earth Mother Magazine up from the Strand 's location on Broadway.

Stomach cramping, she replaced the phone and returned to her seat, ignoring the curious glance of the passenger who set down his USA Today .

Tess closed her eyes -

– in truth, squeezed them tightly, painfully shut when she anticipated -

– dreaded -

– her arrival at Washington National Airport and her eventual meeting with her mother.

Not just her mother. Her dead father's nemesis. That son of a bitch. That murderous bastard. That fucking Brian Hamilton.

Alexandria, Virginia.

Although the sun had just begun to set, every downstairs window of the colonial mansion was brilliantly lit, every outside floodlight gleaming. As the taxi steered through a tall, open, metal gate, Tess scanned the shrubs that bordered the fence, then directed her gaze toward the spacious, upwardly sloping lawn, the numerous, elaborate flower gardens, the magnificent, towering oaks (from one of which she'd fallen and broken her arm as a child; with painful fondness, she remembered her father rushing to help her), the fountain that she'd loved to wade in (what a tomboy I was, she thought and managed a smile).

At once her smile dissolved as the taxi continued along the extensive curved driveway, approaching the mansion and a silver Rolls Corniche parked below the white stone steps that led past columns to the huge double-doored entrance.

The Corniche had government plates. A chauffeur (bodyguard?) stood alertly next to it, his hands at his sides while he squinted toward the taxi.

No doubt about it. Brian Hamilton had arrived.

Tess paid the driver and got out of the taxi, staring at the chauffeur when she passed him, giving him a good look at her. Brian had presumably told the man what she looked like. With a nod, he stepped back, ignoring her, directing his attention toward the taillights of the taxi as it continued around the semicircle of the driveway and disappeared down the quiet, tree-lined street. Yes, definitely a bodyguard, Tess thought.

She carried her suitcase up the steps and hesitated beneath the portico, finally ringing the doorbell.

Ten seconds later, a butler in livery answered.

Tess hadn't been here in so long that she didn't recognize him. 'I've come to see my mother.'

'I know, Ms Drake. My name is Jonathan.' He gave her a solemn smile. 'Welcome. You're expected. If you please, let me carry your suitcase.' He shut the door when she entered and, with echoing footsteps, escorted her across the large, lofty, marble-floored vestibule toward the drawing room on the right. On the way, Tess noticed that a new Matisse had been added to the collection of paintings along the wall.

The drawing room's sliding oak door was closed. When the butler pulled it soundlessly open, Tess tried to appear calm the moment she saw her mother rise from a French Regency sofa to the left of the fireplace.

Theresa, dear, how wonderful to see you.' Her mother had never approved of her father's calling her Tess. Trim, tall, in her sixties, her mother looked ten years younger due to numerous face lifts that nonetheless gave her aristocratic features a pinched expression.

As always in the evening, she wore a formal dress, this one made of expensive amber silk that whispered when she walked, and considerable jewelry: a diamond necklace, matching earrings, a ruby brooch, a sapphire ring on one hand, her glinting, impressive engagement and wedding rings on the other (despite her husband's death six years ago, she persisted in wearing them), an emerald bracelet on one wrist, a gold Piaget watch on the other.

'Really, truly, how wonderful .' Like so many graduates of Radcliffe in the pure old days before that women's college had crassly (God help us, what's the world coming to?) been integrated with the men at Harvard, she walked as if a board had been strapped to her back, and with husky tones reminiscent of Lauren Bacall (who hadn't gone to Radcliffe), she tended to emphasize her words. 'It's been so long . You know how I miss you. You mustn't be such a stranger .'

By then, her mother had reached Tess and with the obligatory, fashionable, almost-kiss, brushed her right and then left cheek, barely touching, against Tess's.

'Yes, mother, and it's good to see you.' Tess managed to smile.

'Jonathan will take your suitcase to your room. Come in. Sit down. You must be exhausted from your travel.'

'Mother, it's only an hour's flight from New York.'

'Oh, really? Well, yes, I suppose that's true. Then why don't I see you more?'

Tess walked toward the French Regency chair placed across from and matching the sofa. 'My work keeps me awfully busy. I barely have time to do my laundry, let alone - '

'Your laundry .' Tess's mother cocked her head back. 'You do your own…? I keep forgetting. You want to be independent .'

That's right, mother.' Tess squirmed against the scrollwork on the chair while her eyes searched the room but, disturbingly, found no sign of Brian Hamilton. 'Independent.'