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  Daily grunted. “How come you’re so rusty on this? Where were you when this was going on? It wasn’t that long ago.”

  “Howie was mad at me for something or other, so he had me covering alleged misconduct in professional wrestling. I missed out on Bondurant’s return and then his split from Washington.”

  “Actually, there wasn’t much to miss. Bondurant had every reporter in Washington frustrated. He dodged cameras and granted no interviews. The tabloids printed their usual tripe, but of course they didn’t give the true story.”

  “What was the true story?”

  “I don’t know. But if Merritt had thought that Bondurant was humping the First Lady, why would he have picked him to lead that rescue mission? He made Bondurant a national hero. That doesn’t sound like the act of a jealous husband, does it?”

  Daily wagged his index finger at her. “And there’s another fact you’ve got wrong. The President didn’t fire him. Following the mission, he asked Bondurant to resume his position at the White House. Bondurant said, ‘Thank you, but no.’ ”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “You’re not the only one with sources, missy. I may have one foot in the grave, but the other one is still welcome in several camps in Washington.”

  “If you’re so in-the-know, where is Bondurant now?”

  “He moved someplace out West. To one of those square states.”

  Chapter Eight

  She went so far as to invite him to lunch. They went to his favorite deli. She even let him eat before pleading her case.

  “Please, Howie. Give me the green light. A few days should do it.”

  He mopped up the juice from his meatball sandwich with the last scrap of bread and stuffed it into his mouth. Chewing, he said, “Travel’s expensive, you know. We’ve got no budget for it.”

  “I’ll pay as I go with my own money. I’ll keep receipts. The station can reimburse me later. But only if I produce the story.”

  She hoped this self-sacrifice would win him over. It also heightened her incentive to produce an exclusive that would electrify the nation, which she believed she was on the brink of doing. Only a story of this magnitude would have compelled her to break bread with Howie Fripp.

  He ruminated—on a raw onion and her request. “Where are you going?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “You expect me to give you the go-ahead when you won’t tell me where you’re going or what the story is?”

  “It’s explosive. Secrecy is the key to breaking it.” She lowered her voice to a hush and leaned in closer, although the onion and garlic fumes emanating from his mouth caused her eyes to tear. “If word got out that I was working on this, it could be dangerous for anyone who knew.”

  “Gimme a break,” he moaned. “Why don’t you try selling that crock of shit over at NBC? Some schmuck over there might actually buy it.”

  “Thanks, Howie. I was hoping you’d say that.” She reached for her satchel.

  At first taken aback, Howie narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “How come you’re not sore?”

  “Because now I can go to Jenkins with a clear conscience. I didn’t want to jump the chain of command, so I asked you first. Since you’ve denied my request, I’m clear to go to the G.M.”

  The mention of WVUE’s general manager struck terror in Howie Fripp’s heart. “Jenkins will back my decision,” he said, feigning confidence. “He’ll laugh himself sick because you had the gall to ask for travel time.”

  “I don’t think so,” Barrie said cheerfully. “Didn’t I tell you about the memo he wrote me?”

  Howie narrowed his eyes again.

  “It was a glowing review of my SIDS series. He wants me to do more special reports like that. He says my talent is being squandered on crap stories. He’d also like me to do some public service programming. Maybe some outside p.r., too, like personal appearances, speeches, things like that.” She frowned. “I thought he would have mentioned it to you by now. No? Well, I guess he’s just so busy, he hasn’t gotten around to it yet.”

  She was making it up as she went along, but he was swallowing it. “I’ll think about it,” he grumbled.

  “No need. Really. Forget it. I’ll just take it up with Jenkins.”

  “Wait! Hold it! Give me a minute, for chrissake. You sprang this on me without giving me any warning.” While mulling it over, he nibbled on his kosher dill spear. “Do you swear the story is that big?”

  “Huge. Gargantuan.”

  He ogled a young woman jogging past the window, took another bite of pickle, scratched his armpit. “Okay, you can take a few days. But you’d better not be jerking me off.”

  She shuddered at the thought.

  * * *

  “Welcome to the Ponderosa,” Barrie said to herself as she drove through the open gate and up the gravel drive to Gray Bondurant’s house.

  Traveling under an assumed name, using a fake ID made for her by an ex-con—one of Daily’s more unsavory sources—and paying with cash so as not to leave a paper trail, Barrie arrived at her destination in the late afternoon. She hoped her safety precautions were overkill, but she was taking no chances.

  Even by northwestern Wyoming standards, Bondurant’s property was off the beaten path. The single-story ranch house was set against a grove of aspens that were just taking on their spectacular autumn color. In order to reach the house, she’d driven across a stream where clear water gurgled over a stone creekbed.

  The house was constructed of log and stone. A covered porch ran the width of it. Three horses were grazing in a paddock. Toward the back were a barn that looked older than the house and a detached garage that stood open and empty except for a snowmobile. Several cords of firewood were stacked against the exterior wall of the garage. Other than the horses, there was no sign of life.

  Now that she was here, Barrie suffered a severe case of tummy butterflies. The surrounding terrain was rugged and intimidating. The mountain range made her feel small and insignificant, as no doubt Gray Bondurant would consider her. Alighting from the rental car, she wondered exactly what she would say to him by way of introduction. From what little she’d heard and read about him, she knew chances weren’t good that he would welcome her with open arms.

  Her flutters were for naught; he wasn’t at home. She realized that after several minutes of ringing the doorbell and knocking. Damn. She was mentally pumped up for the encounter with the former Marine. She’d gone to too much trouble and personal expense to retreat this soon. Even an immediate drive back to Jackson Hole held no appeal.

  Deciding to wait for Bondurant’s return, she sat in the rush-seated rocking chair on the front porch. The view of the Tetons was breathtaking, so she was content to sit and rock while contemplating this marvel of nature. However, it wasn’t long before she became aware of another of nature’s phenomenons, this one biological. She needed a bathroom.

  After another fifteen minutes, she left her satchel in the chair and returned to the front door. Since the garage had been left open, there was a good chance that the house had been left unlocked. It was.

  The door opened directly into a living area. Exposed beams supported the high ceiling. An enormous fireplace dominated the stone wall at the far end of the room. The decor was thoroughly masculine. Large pieces of furniture were upholstered in forest-green suede. The windows were unadorned. Woven wool rugs looking like large saddle blankets dotted the hardwood floor. The silence was absolute, without so much as a clock ticking. The room smelled faintly of wood smoke and… and man.

  The male essence was so strong, so pervasive, that Barrie turned her head quickly, almost expecting to see Bondurant materialize out of thin air.

  Chiding herself for acting foolish, she walked quickly through the central room and found her way to a large bedroom. Here again, the surfaces were hard, with the exception of the unmade bed, which she purposefully avoided looking at. She went into the adjoining bathroom.

  A single toothbrush hung from th
e rack above the sink. Towels were folded on a shelf. A shirt hung on a brass hook on the back of the door. She couldn’t resist the impulse to touch it. Cotton. Unstarched. Comfy.

  The bathroom was basically neat, although she noticed that the cap on a bottle of cologne was dusty from disuse. She was tempted to open the mirrored medicine cabinet and take a peek inside but decided that would be a gross invasion of privacy.

  After using the toilet, she rinsed her hands and dried them on a towel hanging from a chrome ring mounted in the wall. The towel was slightly damp. Not too long ago, he’d dried his face or hands on it. She found that slightly disconcerting and experienced a queer sensation in her midsection. Again, she was powerfully aware of the house’s occupant, as though he were there, just invisible.

  The quiet and seclusion were making her weird, Barrie decided.

  She retraced her steps through the bedroom, promising her absent host that as soon as she got a drink of water, she’d be out of there.

  She located the kitchen with no problem. There was a six-pack of beer in his fridge. No bottled water. No soft drinks. She settled on water from the tap, adding several ice cubes taken from a freezer stocked with cuts of beef and little else.

  Holding to her promise, she returned to the porch to continue her wait. Surely he would be back before dark. He wouldn’t have left his house unlocked if he planned to be away for any significant length of time.

  An orange sunset segued into a purple dusk. Stars came out, more stars than she’d ever seen, having lived in a city all her life. The Milky Way cut a ghostly swath directly overhead.

  With the onset of darkness, the temperature dropped. For warmth, she wrapped her arms around herself. In spite of the cold, she kept falling asleep, her chin hitting her chest whenever her head dropped forward. Her body was two hours ahead of Mountain Time, and her alarm clock had gone off at five that morning.

  “This is nuts,” she said, teeth chattering.

  Before she could talk herself out of it, she went back into the house and lay down on the long suede sofa. Seconds after laying her head on the cushion, she fell asleep.

  Chapter Nine

  The billiard balls clacked, and Howie Fripp emitted an obnoxious snort when his shot sank one into the pocket. “My game. How many’s that?”

  “Three.”

  “Whoo-ee! Fifteen bucks. Unless you want to make it the best five of seven.”

  “No, thanks. You’d clean me out.”

  Howie reached for the three five-dollar bills his opponent extended toward him. He stuffed the money into his pocket and would have made another cocky comment about his extraordinary win, when something in the other man’s eyes warned him that gloating might not be a good idea.

  “The least you can do is buy me a drink.” The loser of the tournament was smiling, but thinly.

  “A drink? Sure, sure,” Howie said. “What’ll you have?”

  He asked for vodka on the rocks. Howie went to the bar and placed the order. He carried the vodka and a beer for himself back to the table where the man had chosen to sit.

  “I can’t stay out too late,” Howie said as he rejoined him. Actually he was ready to leave now. The guy had ordered the vodka by brand. A round or two of drinks with him could liquidate Howie’s winnings. “I gotta be at work early.”

  The man took a sip of his drink. “What line of work are you in?”

  “Broadcast journalism,” Howie boasted, shaking salt into his beer. “WVUE.”

  “You’re on TV?”

  “Nah, I don’t do that on-air shit. That’s a job for idiots, talking heads. No, I assign news stories to the reporters.”

  “So, you’re more or less responsible for what gets on the air?”

  “I’m entirely responsible for what gets on the air.” Basking in the man’s interest, Howie elaborated and embroidered. “It’s up to me which reporter covers which story, which stories get canned, and which get airtime and how much airtime they get. On any given day, I gotta make a million decisions.”

  “That’s a very responsible position.”

  “I thrive on pressure,” he said expansively.

  The man seated across from Howie was the man Howie Fripp wanted to see in his own shaving mirror. Sometimes he even deluded himself into believing that he made the kind of impact on other people that this man had made on him. His new friend was a smooth talker. No matter what the situation, he would keep his cool. He hadn’t even lost his temper when he was soundly defeated in three straight games of pool. He was the kind of guy who inspired uncontrollable lust in women and fearful respect in men.

  “You must be on top of everything going on,” the man remarked. “You get the news before anybody.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So, what’s cooking?”

  Howie searched his mind for something that would impress this impressive individual. “Hmm, well, let’s see. I had a reporter at the scene of that triple shooting the other night, minutes after it happened. Got video of the bodies before they were covered up.”

  The man gave a half-smile and glanced down at his wristwatch.

  “And, uh, let’s see…”

  “Well, I enjoyed our game. I’d better be going.”

  “But the biggest thing we’ve done lately was that series on SIDS. You know, crib death,” Howie said, hoping to regain the man’s attention.

  “Yeah?”

  Bingo! “It was my idea to do it. Sort of a follow-up to the President’s kid, you know.”

  “Tragic thing.”

  “We got an interview with the First Lady.”

  “That was a real coup. She doesn’t grant that many interviews, does she?”

  “It was a WVUE exclusive.”

  “How’d you swing it?”

  “You know how it is. I made some calls. Cashed in a few favors.” He shrugged in a way that said dealing with the White House was no big deal. “You want another drink?”

  “No, thanks. If I get drunk, I might agree to let you whip me in another round.” The man grinned.

  Howie grinned back. He didn’t have any friends to speak of. Maybe he was making a friend. The thought of it made him practically giddy.

  “I saw that interview with the First Lady,” the man remarked. “Very incisive. What was the reporter’s name?”

  “Barrie Travis.” Howie told his new friend how he had come to hire her. “At the time, she couldn’t buy herself a job. I thought, what the fuck? Give her a chance, and win some points with the FCC in the bargain. And she’s pretty good-looking.”

  His new friend chuckled. “If we’re forced to work with them, why not hire the pretty ones, right?”

  Howie leered. His new friend talked his language. “You got that right, buddy.” He winked. “Barrie and me had a thing going for a while, but it got sticky, working with her and all, so I had to break it off. She was okay with it. Didn’t cause me any grief like some of them do. Turned out to be a pretty good little reporter. She hustles. May be a little too ambitious for her own good.”

  “Really. How so?”

  “Ah, you know. Because of the success of her series, which I actually produced, she’s got her head in the clouds and stars in her eyes. She’s driving me nuts about this hot story she’s on to.”

  “Really?” His companion was no longer glancing at his wristwatch. He was leaning back comfortably in his chair, swirling the ice in his glass. “What’s the story?”

  “Beats me. She won’t say.”

  “Come on. Who am I going to tell?”

  “I swear I don’t know. But she says if the story pans out the way she thinks, it’ll make Watergate look like Mickey Mouse.”

  The man’s smile slipped a notch. “Then it must be hot.”

  “Hot enough for her to take a few days off to do some research out of town.”

  “Where?”

  The man’s voice took on an edge that arrested Howie’s fist halfway between the bowl of peanuts on the table and his mouth. Sudden
ly he felt that maybe he was being indiscreet, that maybe he shouldn’t be blabbing so much about Barrie’s story. “She wouldn’t tell me.”

  The man’s smile returned. “Not even a hint?”

  “None.”

  “Your girl’s full of secrets.”

  “She’s a skirt. What can I say? Who can ever figure out a broad?” Howie reached for his beer to wash down the peanuts.

  “Well, it’s late, and you’ve got to be at work early. Thanks for the drink.”

  Howie scrambled up from his chair when his new friend rose. “I enjoyed it.”

  “You should have, you son of a gun. You’re going home fifteen bucks richer.”

  “Maybe we can do it again sometime,” Howie said, hoping he didn’t sound overeager. He didn’t want the guy to mistake him for a fag. “I’m here a coupla nights a week. Whenever I don’t have other plans. Just knocking back with the guys, you know.”

  “Then I’ll probably see you around.” They shook hands.

  Howie watched him go, envying and admiring the man’s confident air, and knowing, almost for certain, that he would never see him again.

  For reasons that remained a mystery to him, Howie just didn’t seem to make friends easily.

  * * *

  Spencer Martin had driven two blocks before he happened to catch a glimpse of himself in his rearview mirror. Laughing, he reached up to remove the baseball cap that had long, curly hair sewn into the back of it. He also peeled off the fake mustache. It would take a little more effort to get rid of the stench of tobacco smoke and stale beer from the neighborhood dive he’d followed Howie Fripp into.

  What an insect, Spence thought as he headed back to the White House.

  But he’d learned from Fripp what he and David needed to know—Barrie Travis was still on the trail of a story she considered hot. Did that story relate to the President or Mrs. Merritt or the death of Robert Rushton Merritt?

  He was convinced that Fripp didn’t know; otherwise he would have bragged about it. At this point Spence didn’t know, either. But finding out was his top priority.

  * * *

  “Well I’m glad you’re glad, Mrs. Gaston.… No, I’m certain Mrs. Merritt will be pleased with my choice.… Good. Now, as to the arrangements for tomorrow, a car will come for you at six-thirty. I know it’s early, but… Okay. Very good. I’ll look forward to seeing you then. Good night.”