The Inner Sanctum (11 page)

"Good-bye, Father." Connie kissed the back of his wrinkled hand, then crossed herself twice.

"May God be with you," he murmured.

"And also with thee," she answered.

Father McCord walked across the tiled kitchen floor to Jesse. "It seems like forever since I've seen you. How have you been?"

"Fine, Father." She gazed at the stiff white collar standing out sharply against his black shirt and jacket. She had almost opened her soul to this man so many times over the years about that terrible night long ago. But each time, she had decided against confiding in him. Because of his close relationship with her mother, it would have put him in a terribly difficult position--priest or not. It was better for him not to know, so she had sought counsel elsewhere.

"Come by and see me sometime."

"I will, Father." But she knew she wouldn't.

"Well, good-bye. I'll see myself out." Father McCord nodded to Jesse and once more at Connie, then moved into the hallway.

Jesse watched him go, then walked to where her mother sat and wrapped her arms around Connie's thin frame. "How are you, Mom?"

"Fine, dear. Happy birthday, by the way. My youngest is twenty-nine years old. I can't believe it."

Jesse heard the front door close as Father McCord left. "You can't believe it? How about me? One more year and I'll be thirty," she moaned.

"Oh, you look wonderful. I don't want to hear any complaints. What I wouldn't give to be twenty-nine again."

Jesse pulled back from the embrace. Connie was small, with a friendly face and an independent personality. Even at sixty-eight she remained vibrant, working several days a week at the church. Still, Jesse worried about her being alone in the house. "So how is everything at Sacred Heart, Mom?" The church was her life now.

"Fine, fine. You know, you really should stop by and visit Father McCord. He asks about you all the time. He has always been there for our family. He was there for me when you were sixteen and your father died. And again when your stepfather passed away last spring. Father McCord visited and called me almost as much as you did." Connie smiled lovingly at Jesse. "I don't know what I would have done without either of you. Father McCord was my Rock of Gibraltar and you were my angel. You've always been around for me when I've needed you. Unlike your siblings," Connie muttered under her breath as she stood up and moved to the sink.

"They've been there for you too, Mom."

Connie picked up a dish and began rinsing it. "I know your brothers and sisters have lives of their own, but it would be nice to hear from them more often than just that obligatory once-a- month call."

"They have kids. You know how hard that is. You raised nine of us."

Connie put the dish down on the counter and picked up another from the sink. "You have a full-time job and you go to school at night. You find the time to come and see me," she sniffed.

Jesse sat down at the kitchen table and shook her head as she remembered the family crowded around it for dinner, remembered the wonderful times they had all enjoyed--even without much money. Wonderful times--until her father had died.

"How's Todd Colton these days?" Connie asked.

Todd Colton was an old high school friend of Jesse's. "Fine, I guess. I had lunch with him a few months ago. Why do you ask?"

"I always thought you two would make a nice couple. He's a good-looking boy, you're a nice-looking girl. You always seemed to get along so well together. You're both still single. I never understood why it didn't turn into more."

"We tried a long time ago, Mom." Jesse hesitated. "It just didn't work out. But we're still good friends even though we don't see each other much."

"I remember the way you used to look at Todd. You could find romance with him."

"Mom, please."

"He's even better-looking now than he was in high school," Connie teased.

"When did you see him?" Jesse couldn't avoid her curiosity.

"He stopped by the house the other day, just to say hello. He's such a nice person."

"Yes, he is." Jesse noticed paint peeling from the ceiling. "How is your money holding out, Mom?"

"Fine." Connie's tone went flat.

"Don't brush me off so fast," Jesse admonished gently. "Tell me the truth."

Connie rinsed the last dish in the sink, then trudged wearily to the table and sat down. "I have a little bit of money in the bank, and I have my monthly Social Security check and your father's pension."

Jesse looked up, a look of mild surprise on her face. She had asked her mother so many times about her money situation but had always gotten nowhere. Now she was finally getting answers. "How much is a little bit in the bank?"

"A couple of thousand dollars."

"That's all? Didn't Dad have any life insurance policies?"

"Yes, but that money went to pay for your stepfather Joe's hospital bills. For his heart attacks. It turned out Joe didn't have the retiree medical benefits we thought he did."

Jesse felt the anger rise instantly at the mention of her stepfather's name. Joe Schuman had been good for nothing--except spending her father's money. "Mom, how could you use Dad's money on Joe?"

"Let's not get into that." Connie sighed.

Jesse fought the anger as it rose several more degrees. "What about the house? You've lived here for twenty-five years, so it must be paid for. Surely you could get some equity out of it if you needed to."

Connie put a hand on Jesse's arm. "It's funny how things like clothes and braces cost so much. It just seemed like your father and I were never able to get ahead. We were always taking out another mortgage. I can't tell you how many of those papers I signed."

"Didn't Joe leave anything?"

"No." Connie had always wanted Jesse and Joe to get along, but it hadn't happened. Now Joe was dead and the opportunity for reconciliation was gone forever. "I never understood why you wouldn't give Joe a chance. He was a good man, not the monster you made him out to be. I needed someone. It wasn't his fault your father died."

Jesse felt the knot in her stomach tighten, but forced herself to say nothing, to hold back the story she so wanted to relate. "How much is the Social Security check and Dad's pension?"

"Together they come to eight hundred dollars a month."

"Have you fixed the roof yet?"

"Not yet. That takes a backseat to food and utility bills. I'm trying not to touch what I have in the bank just in case there's an emergency." Connie's expression became grim. "I've always told you not to ask about this. It's kind of depressing when you stop to analyze it. But it isn't your problem."

The fall wardrobe would have to wait. Jesse rose from the chair, retrieved her purse from the hall, then sat back down at the kitchen table.

"What are you doing?" Connie asked suspiciously.

Without answering, Jesse withdrew two hundred-dollar bills from the purse and laid them on the table. "Here, Mom. It won't fix the roof, but it'll help."

"I can't take that, Jesse. You gave me money last month and I swore I wouldn't take any more."

"Just take it."

"But . . ."

"Take it, Mom," Jesse said firmly.

Slowly Connie's fingers crept across the wooden tabletop to the money. "You really are an angel."

The man blew thick smoke into the dimly lighted office. "Do you smoke, Commander Pierce?"

"No, sir."

"Would you care for something to drink?" He motioned toward a wet bar in one corner of the room. "I know you don't allow yourself alcohol, but there are soft drinks as well."

"Thank you, no sir."

The man watched the naval aviator for a few moments as he puffed on the Monte Cristo again. Commander Pierce wore civilian clothes, but his crew cut, steely eyes, and ramrod-straight posture still exuded a no-nonsense military veneer. "I appreciate your flying in so quickly from Nevada. I know it's a long way to come just for a discussion, but this wasn't something I felt we could talk about over the phone."

"Absolutely no problem. It's a short flight in the jets I pilot. And I had other business here in Washington, so it worked out well."

"Good." The man rubbed his lips for a moment before continuing. "We have a situation at Area 51."

"What kind of situation, sir?"

"A situation that requires the skill you and the other men of your unit possess. I have ascertained that someone at Area 51 is passing along highly sensitive information to Senator Malcolm Walker regarding the A-100 project. Information Walker plans to use in an attempt to derail the project."

The commander's top lip curled into a sneer.

"The Navy needs the A-100, Commander Pierce. We all need the A-100," the man emphasized.

"Yes, sir."

"We organized your unit for this exact situation. You know what to do."

"Of course."

The man smiled. "You are protecting your country, Commander Pierce. You are doing the right thing. Sometimes we can't always play by the rules in our effort to do the right thing."

"I understand, sir," Pierce answered resolutely. "What is the traitor's name?"

"Captain Paul Nichols. Do you know who he is?"

"Yes. We'll take care of him."

"Good." The man puffed on his cigar once more. The situation had been addressed and resolved that quickly.

Jesse nodded politely at the receptionist, then moved quickly out of the professional offices and into the hallway. There she leaned back against the wall, shut her eyes, and exhaled heavily. The unexpected encounter with Father McCord and the conversation with her mother had rekindled the memories. Thank God Becky had been able to meet on such short notice.

** Chapter 12

Middleburg, Virginia, located thirty miles west of downtown Washington, lay claim to some of the most beautiful and expensive real estate in the East. Handsome stone mansions were set behind miles of six-foot- high white post fences dotting the rolling hills and lush fields of the picturesque countryside.

Middleburg also lay claim to some of the most expensive Thoroughbred horses in the world. For many who lived in this moneyed enclave, breeding horses was a livelihood highlighted by the Triple Crown, the Grand National, or the sale of a particularly fine stallion to a wealthy Arab emir for an exorbitant amount of cash. These people resided on thousand-acre farms, owned many horses, drove old-model Volvo station wagons to town on errands and Rolls-Royces to the fall steeplechases, and waited breathlessly for the spring crop of foals. They never discussed money, never flaunted it, and were never without it. They were the old money.

Jack Finnerty's fifteen-acre farm lay in the middle of this moneyed expanse. At one time his six-bedroom colonial had been a guest house on the huge Auchincloss estate, which now bounded Finnerty's farm on three sides. Four years ago, Finnerty had purchased the property to mark his election as president of General Engineering & Aerospace, the huge defense conglomerate headquartered in the Washington suburb of Falls Church.

Through brilliant afternoon sunshine pouring down from a cloudless blue sky, David Mitchell eyed the Finnerty stable, blue and white racing colors flying from the weather vane. The stable was two hundred yards away from the house, across neatly manicured lawns. He shook his head. This place seemed almost surreal, it was so beautiful. But would he really want to deal with the snobbery and false pretenses of this life? He laughed. Who the hell was he kidding? It was exactly what he wanted, why he was willing to take these huge risks. This was financial security. All he had ever wanted.

David's expression turned sour. God, the waiting was killing him. The test flight was supposed to have taken place yesterday and Finnerty was to have called from Nevada to relay the good news. News that the A-100 was a monstrous success, and that it would only be a matter of time before GEA's stock price lifted off into nosebleed territory. Only a matter of time before David could walk into Art Mohler's office and drop a newspaper story concerning the A-100 and its powerful effect on GEA right down on Mohler's antique desk.

But Finnerty hadn't called from Nevada. Instead his secretary had called, inviting David to Finnerty's home for a face-to- face meeting. That couldn't be a good sign, could it? A face-to- face instead of a simple phone call. Maybe the test flight hadn't gone so well after all. Suddenly a tidal wave of doubt rushed over him.

"Good afternoon, Mitchell." Finnerty moved into the room from the study, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

It occurred to David that he had rarely seen Finnerty without his arms crossed. "Hello, Jack." He always addressed Finnerty by his first name even though Finnerty always used David's last. David assumed Finnerty's use of last names in conversation--even when addressing close associates--was a habit with its roots buried in his military days.

"Sorry to keep you waiting." Finnerty spoke in a precise, nasal voice tinged with the hint of a New England accent. He was a fair-skinned man with short red hair reflecting his Irish ancestry via Boston. A former Marine made good in the corporate world, he spoke in rapid bursts, supremely confident of his observations and analysis.