Стюарт Вудс - Choppy Water

“Tommy,” she said. “Have you been fucking somebody else?”

“I have not, and I have no intention of doing so.”

She stared at him. “You’re waiting for me to insist that you tell me,” she said.

“Something like that.”

“All right, Tommy, tell me, and I’ll forget I ever heard it.”

“You can’t say that lightly,” he replied. “This is the equivalent of swearing under oath that you don’t know this.”

She looked around her suspiciously. “Have you had the house wired? Are we being recorded?”

“Good God, no! If I can’t tell you about this, why would I want a bunch of tech guys at the Bureau to know about it?”

“All right, I’m ready to forget I ever heard it. Go.”

“The worst part first.”

“I’m ready.”

“I have to have lunch, maybe even dinner, with Peg Parsons.”

“You tricked me!” she shouted.

“What?”

“You tricked me into giving you permissions to fuck Peg Parsons! Again!”

“This is why I didn’t want to tell you,” he said, shaking his head. “And, for the record, I haven’t fucked Peg Parsons for more than twenty years.”

“Some things are timeless,” she replied.

“Do you want to hear why I have to see her?”

“I’m dying to hear it.”

“I have to ask her to write a column using information I’m going to give her that could be construed as against the national interest.”

“Do I want to know what that information is?”

“No, certainly not.”

“Tell me!” She stamped her foot. This was something akin to a Spanish bull pawing the dirt in the ring.

“Many years ago Holly Barker was a police officer in a Florida town, and she was, briefly, considered a suspect in the murder of her chief, who had, some time before, drugged and raped her.”

Amanda’s jaw was working, but nothing was coming out. Holly Barker was her idol.

“Make me understand,” she said, finally.

“Someone who is bitterly opposed to her politically intends to give this information to that creep of the airwaves, Jake Wimmer, who will fashion it into a conspiracy theory that could haunt her for years.”

“Surely this was investigated at the time,” Amanda said.

“It was investigated at the time by the internal affairs department of her police force, by the Florida state police — and later by the FBI and the CIA. Ms. Barker is as clean as a hound’s tooth.”

“But that won’t matter, will it?”

Tom shook his head sadly. “No. Not to these people.”

“And how does the awful Peg Parsons come into this?”

“We want her to publish the story, after having investigated it thoroughly herself. We want her to review the four earlier investigations during that process, then write a column about it. Then Wimmer’s conspiracy theory will be blunted, maybe even spiked.”

“Tommy,” Amanda said, “I think that’s just wonderful!”

“Then I can see Peg, and you’ll forget about it?”

She shrugged, and one loop of her apron fell off a shoulder. “Eventually.”

“Not eventually, now .”

“All right, now.”

“And you have no memory of being told?”

“None. Who do I have to fuck to prove it to you?”

“That would be me,” Tom said, working on his buttons.

Amanda slithered out of the apron and met him on the kitchen island. He made the gong sound only once.

Bess Potts turned down the long dirt road that led to Colonel Sykes’s compound. It was a winding and very pretty drive, climbing a couple of hundred feet from the highway. She pressed the down button on her window and let the sweet air in. She also let in an unexpected sound: the muffled crack of what sounded like a silenced rifle.

She pulled into the parking area outside Sykes’s house, which was set in a notch of the hillside. She switched off the engine and sat in the car for a moment, waiting to hear the sound again, so she could track its location.

Her arm was resting on the car door, and something struck her elbow. She looked at the door and found that her driver’s-side mirror had disappeared. Apparently, that was what had struck her elbow.

“CEASE FIRE!” came a tinny voice from the distance, then all was quiet. “STAND DOWN!” the voice shouted.

Wade Sykes stepped from behind the house and walked over to her car. “Are you all right, Bess?” he asked.

“Weren’t you expecting me?”

“Not for another quarter hour,” he replied. “Do you need anything?”

“Yes, I need a new side mirror, and it’s one of those smart ones, so it will be expensive.”

“I’ll replace it, of course. Were you hit?”

Bess unbuttoned her sleeve and rolled it up, exposing her elbow, which sported a huge lump. “Maybe an ambulance?”

Sykes opened her car door and helped her out. “I don’t think we’ll need an ambulance, but let’s get you into the kitchen and get some ice on that.”

She followed him inside, holding her elbow in her other hand. The lump had begun to throb.

“Elroy!” Sykes shouted. “Get out here!”

Slowly, Elroy Hubbard opened the swinging door to the kitchen. “You wanted something, Colonel?”

“Get some ice on Miss Potts’s elbow. She’s had an accident, and it’s swelling.”

“Accident?” Bess asked. “Someone was shooting at me.”

“My dear,” Sykes said, “if Eugene had been shooting at you, we’d be calling a hearse right now.”

Elroy came out of the kitchen holding a dish towel, twisting it to keep the ice in. She sat down at the dining table, gently propping her arm on it, and he applied the ice pack. “Just hold it right there with your other hand,” he said gently, “and turn it every now and then to keep the cold on it.”

Bess followed his instructions. “Wade, what the hell is going on out there?”

“Target practice,” Sykes said. “We do a lot of that around here.”

“How many visitors have you lost?” she asked, a touch of acid in her voice.

“None so far,” he said. “Fortunately.”

“And why is Eugene employing a silencer?”

“Why do you think that?” Sykes asked.

“Because I couldn’t hear the shots, just a pfft sound. Ergo, a silencer. That’s illegal, isn’t it?”

“It’s a beer can, filled with sawdust from my woodworking shop, that’s affixed to the rifle barrel with duct tape.”

“I believe that’s the very definition of a silencer,” she said.

“How is your elbow feeling?”

“Better, sort of numb.”

“The swelling will go down after a while. Would you like a drink to help it along?”

“Scotch,” she said. “Rocks, too.”

“I’ll join you.” He handed her a glass and she took a gulp of it.

“Is Eugene going to shoot it out of my hand?”

“Of course not. What happened was completely an accident.”

“Or maybe Eugene doesn’t like me a little.”

“I expect he’s sitting on his bunk, crying his eyes out as we speak,” Sykes said.

She managed a chuckle. “I’m glad the mirror got in the way, or I wouldn’t have an elbow.”

“We use silencers for outdoor shooting to keep from disturbing the neighbors.”

“What neighbors? I’ve never seen a living soul around here during my visits.”

“Oh, we have a couple of old ladies — sisters — who live nearby. Once, they called the police when they heard gunfire.”

“A perfectly normal reaction,” Bess said.

“Perhaps,” he replied. “But I’m building something in my shop that will be much more effective.”

“Oh, good,” Bess replied. “Then Eugene can pick the old ladies off their front porch and never make a sound.”