The Plot (11 page)

Penseur has been invited to return in September when an international student group will be visiting Firethorne.

Cassie raised her eyes from the newsletter and stared across the room at nothing in particular.
Peace?
She shook her head and looked back down at the aging pages in front of her.
Changing American attitudes toward personal freedom. Collective responsibility.

She thumbed through the other newsletters. A reprint of the
Port Huron Statement
. A treatise on Freud's theory regarding “unnecessary repression” and a discussion of the tactics that would effect the greatest change with the least amount of resistance. An essay about “Nixon's criminal administration” and the need to elect a “socially responsible” president in 1976.

The group's Mission Statement was printed inside the front cover of each issue:

"Members of Penseur seek knowledge and understanding through the study of history and philosophy in order that we may devote our lives to creating a better world for our posterity. Through effective use of the public school system, the courts, and the election of sympathetic officials, we believe it is within the power of our generation to lead America to think globally, rather than nationally, and socially, rather than individually. We believe that, through the willing abandonment of traditional American values, the United States will be able to use its influence to lead the world into a new millennium where peace and cooperation replace armed conflict."

There it was again. Collectivism versus individualism.
But that's been tried and failed. Of course, back in 1972, they couldn't have known that the Soviet empire would collapse under its own weight-and the determination of President Reagan.
She looked at the binder containing the seven monthly issues of
Penseur
. The newsletter had existed for less than a year, which meant the group had probably died a natural death.
But what became of the people in the group?
She glanced at the masthead and blinked, thinking she had misread the name. “Editor-in-chief: Madison Hart.”
Daddy? The man who wrote
Linchpin
? Who had devoted his life to defending the Bill of Rights?
She shook her head again, remembering Hong Kong, the documents Max had shown her, her father's sudden estrangement from Uncle Hamilton. She studied the masthead more closely. Uncle Hamilton's name was listed nowhere, even though Max said that Hamilton Bates was one of the founders.

May Lee's voice from the foot of the stairs roused Cassie from her thoughts. Standing, she placed the binder back on the shelf and threaded her way through the clutter toward the door. Lunch was getting cold. The trail wasn't. She suddenly realized that her visit to the cemetery wasn't the only thing she'd postponed too long.

Max returned to the dock three hours later with four hand-sized bream and a stringer full of catfish. Although fishing was only a cover, he hadn't had so much fun in a long time. He'd been a little awkward putting the crickets on the hook, but the minnows and worms were as easy as ever. As he unloaded the boat and threw his stringer of fish on the dock, a tall, broad-shouldered young black man and his very pregnant wife strolled over. She was almost as tall as her husband.

"Had a pretty good day, huh?” the young man asked.

"Not too bad, I reckon,” Max replied, hefting the red cooler onto the dock.

"Ya done a sight better than us,” the woman said.

"Oh, yeah? How come?” Max guessed the answer before it came.

The young man squatted down on the dock, picking up the stringer and testing its weight. “Had t’ come back in,” he said, laying the fish back on the wooden planks. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the woman behind him. “Mah ol’ lady started gittin’ back cramps just ‘bout the time the fish started bitin'.” The woman rubbed her swollen belly.

Max finished unloading the boat, and the young man helped him carry his rods and tackle to the truck parked across the way. The woman shuffled along slowly behind them.

"You come here much?” asked Max, hefting the ice-filled cooler into the truck's bed.

"Now an’ then,” he answered, laying the fishing rods down carefully. “Shouldna come this time, though. Shavonda, uh, mah wife, didn’ think she could handle goin’ in a boat. I guess I shoulda listened. How ‘bout you?"

"Naw. It's my first time. You just here for the day or are ya rentin’ a cabin?"

"Had a cabin since yesterday. Tomorrow I'll go fishin’ alone and leave her t’ sleep in."

"Sounds like the best idea for both o’ ya,” Max said, pulling a couple of
Budweisers
from the cooler and handing one to his companion. “Ya know, I've got an old friend who was supposed t’ be here this week. Hoped I'd run into ‘im. Don't suppose y'all mighta seen ‘im? Tall, kinda skinny guy. Got gray hair that he wears in a short ponytail?"

Shavonda cocked her head. “Yeah. Cabin twelve. We seen ‘im. ‘Member, Sam? He helped us carry our stuff into the cabin."

"Yeah. Nice ol’ guy. Saw ‘im head out first thing this mornin',” said her husband. He popped the can open and took a long drink.

"Head out?” Max asked, taking a healthy swig of his own.

"Yeah. He goes fishin’ early, stays out real late-past dark sometimes. Says when the moon's full like this, fishin’ just keeps gettin’ better as the sun goes down."

So that's what Squirrel meant when he said Jonathon had left out early. He'd gone
fishing
. “He ain't come back in yet, then?” Max looked out across the big lake for some sign of a boat.

"Nope. See that ol’ green Ford F-150? That's his.” Sam motioned toward the cabin at the end of the long, dirt drive.

Max nodded. “Great. Maybe I'll wait around then. I reckon I can entertain myself ‘til he gets back. Oh, hey, since y'all didn't have much luck this mornin', how ‘bout takin’ these fish off my hands? I love catchin’ ‘em, but I can't cook ‘em worth a diddly-squat."

Shavonda smiled for the first time. “We'd sure ‘preciate that, Mister..."

"Just call me Max,” he answered as he took the fish from the cooler, put them in the plastic bag he'd gotten from the marina, and handed them to Sam. “Enjoy them with my compliments."

Sam looked at his wife, then back at Max. “Tell you what. How ‘bout eatin’ with us? Seein’ as how you gon’ be stuck aroun’ here ‘til the ol’ man gits back."

"Yes, why doncha?” Shavonda joined in. “I can fix us up some grits to go with it, and I brung some greens from home."

It was Max's turn to smile.
God. Real food.
“If yer sure it wouldn't be any trouble. Man, I can't tell y'all how good that sounds."

"We're in number eleven,” Sam said, putting his arm around his wife. “See ya around six? Sooner if ya like."

"I'll be there,” Max said. “Oh, by the way...” They stopped and looked back at him. “Mister Jonathon ain't expectin’ me. So, if ya see ‘im, don't tell ‘im I'm here. I'd like to surprise ‘im."

Cassie placed the two white roses that she'd cut from her mother's bushes into the vase by the headstone and knelt down beside the grass-blanketed grave. She and Daddy had always visited here together. They'd hold hands, say a prayer, and share their memories. Now she was alone, and he was with Mother.

Her fingers trembled as she opened the box. It was time. Taking a deep breath against the sick feeling that pulled at her stomach, she watched her father's ashes fall soundlessly to the ground-the bits and shards and gray-white remains of the man who had been her hero, her friend, and now, merely a memory. How could such a great man be reduced to so little? She remembered the priest's words on Ash Wednesday-"Remember man that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return"-and crossed herself, trying to pray. But she couldn't. Any more than she could cry. The ache was too deep.

The clouds that had been gathering throughout the day turned the skies a dark gray, and Cassie stood up. A soft breeze brushed against her cheeks and stirred the small mound of ashes at her feet. She thought of Alan. His ashes were preserved in a tiny little drawer in a mausoleum. His mother couldn't bear the idea of not being able to visit him. Cassie shook her head. Being reunited with the earth was better. She was sure Alan would have preferred it, too. But he was dead. His mother had to go on living.

A cardinal sang in the distance, interrupting her thoughts, and she looked across to see it flit from a lilac bush to the cherry trees lining the long drive. How Mother had loved the beautiful red birds. She smiled a little, remembering her father's attempt to mimic their song. He hadn't succeeded.

Cassie sighed and took one last look at the mound of gray ashes beside the white marble headstone, then turned and walked away. It was time to get on with the business of living-and to finish the job her father had begun.

Deep in her own thoughts, she hardly noticed the light rain that dusted her face nor the distant thunder that threatened worse weather to come as she hurried to her car. She needed some answers and could think of only one person who could supply them.

A fender-bender in the southbound lane slowed traffic almost to a standstill, and Cassie glanced impatiently at the clock on the dashboard. “3:00.” It was almost an hour's drive in normal traffic. Getting past the accident scene would add at least another twenty minutes. And she had to be at
Books and Beanz
by seven o'clock. Maybe she should call to make sure he'd be there. For all she knew, he could be out of town. Or in a meeting. Or anywhere but at his office. She reached for the cell phone, paused, and withdrew her hand. No. If he wasn't there, well, he just wasn't there. He might ask her what she wanted to see him about, and she wanted to see his face, the look in his eyes, when she asked him.

Heavy rain scalded the street, sending up clouds of steam from the hot pavement as Cassie drove up to the gated entrance of the Bates Building parking garage and rolled down her window.

"Cassandra Hart to see Hamilton Bates,” she told the uniformed guard, who compared her face to the photo on the driver's license she handed him. Rain dripped through the window of her car while the guard spoke into his walkie-talkie, and she drummed her fingers against the steering wheel as she waited for permission to enter. Not much chance of getting mugged here.
Unlike the parking garage at the magazine offices.

The guard's voice broke into her thoughts. “Okay, Miss Hart. You'll find a parking space on the far end of level two. The guard inside will direct you,” he said, handing her license back to her and opening the gate.

Minutes later, the elevator doors closed, shutting out the scent of the rain. As the floors passed slowly, Cassie planned what she would say, what questions she would ask of the man who had known her father since their days at Yale. She would play upon her grief, which was real enough, and his long affection for her. “You're like the daughter I never had,” he often said, and she decided to approach him like he was Daddy.

When the doors slithered open at the fifth floor, Cassie put on what her father had called her “little girl, lost” face and stepped into Uncle Hamilton's suite. It took up the entire floor, with a reception area, three offices for his assistants and their secretaries, his own secretary's office, a fair-sized library, and his own office.

Surprisingly, the receptionist was not at her desk, but Cassie didn't have time to wait for her to return. Pushing open the door to the secretary's office, Cassie paused. Martha was not here, either. She glanced at the clock on Martha's desk. “4:30.” Maybe everyone had left for the day. But no. The security guard had announced her, so Uncle Hamilton had to be here. Making up her mind, Cassie stepped past the secretary's wide mahogany desk to knock on the door that was slightly ajar. The sound of voices stopped her hand in mid-air.

"Have they got any leads on the Cordon woman yet?” asked a man whose deep, New York-accented voice sounded vaguely familiar.

"No. She says it's not as easy as it sounds ‘finding one dark-haired, dark-eyed woman in a continent filled with them,'” Uncle Hamilton replied. “They've tracked her from Mexico as far as Cuba, but the authorities there are as recalcitrant as ever."

"My God, Hamilton. They've got the resources of the entire United States intelligence community and FBI at their disposal.” The deep-voiced man sounded incredulous.

"Yes, but Georgeanne Dalton is almost as much of a clown as the buffoons she hired when she became Attorney General. It's a wonder she accomplishes anything.” Uncle Hamilton clipped his words, a sure sign he was irritated, and Cassie wondered whether she'd picked a good time to talk to him.

"What about that thing with D.C.P.D.?"

Uncle Hamilton paused before answering. “Georgeanne says that's all been taken care of. God, I'll be glad when this administration is gone, and we can get the
right
people into office."

The other man cleared his throat. “Uh, didn't you say Cassandra Hart was on her way up? Shouldn't she be here by now?"

Cassie could tell from the sound of the man's voice that he had turned and was looking toward the door. She walked quickly back to the outer door, opening and shutting it loudly, then strode to the door marked “Hamilton Bates, Private” and knocked twice.

A large-bellied man with ink-black hair and heavy jowls opened the door.
Walter Spano. Of course.
“Hi. I'm Cassandra Hart. Mr. Bates is expecting me.” She smiled innocently up into his dark brown eyes.

"Cassandra,” came Hamilton Bates’ voice from behind his desk. “Come in."

Spano stepped aside to let her pass, and Cassie smiled across the room at the steely-haired, gray-eyed man who stood and walked toward her, his hands outstretched.

"Hi, Uncle Hamilton,” she said, allowing him to take her hands in his and returning his gentle squeeze. “I hope I'm not intruding.” She looked back over her shoulder at the man by the door. “I waited in the reception area for Susan to return, but she didn't, and then when I saw that Martha wasn't at her desk either..."

"It's quite all right. It's always a pleasure to see you. Do you remember my Chief of Security, Walter Spano?"