Unfinished Business (14 page)

“Jes' gonna ask if you got a cig'rette, man,” a bewildered-sounding voice wheezed out of the darkness. “Saw you sitting there and I was jes' gonna ask if you got cig'rettes.” The figure raised its hands and he saw they were gnarled and matted with dirt.

Homeless guy
, Mark concluded, relaxing a little. Probably one of the dozens that lived on the benches lining the Mall. “Sorry.” He lowered the cane and shook his head. “No cigarettes.”

“Oh,” the skeletal man sounded genuinely crestfallen. “Well, you got some spare change?”

Mark shook his head. “Sorry. No change. “

“Here.”

Mark turned to find Erica at his elbow. Before he could stop her, she was stretching a dollar toward the man.

The spectral man moved much faster now that money was on offer. He covered the ground between them in twice the time of the slow, deliberate step that he had used to cross the grass.

“Thanks.” He breathed alcohol and filth at them. “Thanks,” he repeated, and then turned on his heel with an almost military precision and hurried back into the dark shadows of the other side of the Mall.

“What did you do that for?” Mark snapped, frowning down at Erica.

Her eyes flashed. “What do you mean, ‘what did I do that for'? The guy is homeless. He needs that money for food!”

“Yeah, he
needs
it for food,” Mark grumbled. “But he's going to use it for beer. You just contributed to his slow suicide.”

He wished he hadn't said it, because a sort of pained expression dawned in her eyes before she retorted, “Maybe. But what were
you
going to do for him?” She barely paused long enough for him to open his mouth. “Nothing,” she finished. “Your kind never do anything for anyone who can't help themselves.”

Your kind.
The words registered like a nasty punch to the gut.

“He's not my responsibility,” Mark said, feeling the argument gearing up between them. “He's his own.”

“No, he's
our
responsibility. All of us. He's another soul fallen through the cracks. You don't know his story, you don't know what happened to him that made him the way he is.”

“I know enough,” Mark said, turning away from her to begin the slow limp back to the bench.

“And what do you know? What's enough?”

“I know that whatever happened in his life, instead of beating it, he let it beat him. And that makes him weak.”

“I don't see how you can say that!”

“Easy,” Mark continued, and suddenly he was angry—angry at her, angry at the man, angry at the whole conversation. “You think he's the only one who's had hard times? The only one who's felt pain or sorrow or loss?” Mark shook his head. “I've felt all of those things…and so have you. And neither one of us is sneaking up to people, begging for a dollar on the street. We've felt those things and we've managed to find a way to pull ourselves through it without a handout.”

“You're strong, Mark,” she reminded him. “Don't you have even a little compassion for those weaker than you?”

He had a flash, a series of ugly memories crowding in on him in quick succession. He saw himself as a younger man, lost and directionless, as likely to embark on a path of alcohol and drug abuse as anything. He saw himself again, struggling against the lure of painkillers, grieving the loss of himself even as the nation hailed him a hero. And he saw himself again, in the depth of his mind's eye, a widower, alone without his life partner and best friend. His two-beer-a-day habit, drunk whether in company or alone, buzzed around him. Two a day and no more. A habit. A reminder of the ongoing need to ease both physical and emotional pain. But all he could manage to say was a terse, “I
am
that guy. But for the grace of God.”

She looked at him, her eyes bright with some emotion, and once again Mark found himself struggling with the competing desires to lash out in irritation, rejecting her and her pity—and to pull her toward him, binding her to his side forever.

“Give your money to a shelter, Erica,” Mark muttered, looking away from her again before she could
say anything that would tip the balance within him in either direction. “It's getting late.”

She must have read the war within him in his eyes, because this time she offered no protest. She shivered a little under her colorful shawl as they reached the bench they had so suddenly vacated.

“What's that?” she asked, pointing toward something gleaming white in the darkness. “Did you leave something?”

Mark shook his head. “I don't think so.” He touched the spring and stabbed at the white thing with the cane, spearing it. “But let's see.”

It was a plain white envelope bearing the name Erica Johnson typed in block letters on the surface. Inside, he could tell, there appeared to be a single piece of paper. Even in the low light, Mark could see red writing scrawled across the white sheet inside. He glanced at Erica and saw her face tighten.

“It's another one,” she said, and he noticed her voice was surprisingly steady, surprisingly calm, considering that someone—some person or people unknown—had been near enough to leave this missive on the very bench they had been sitting on. And might still be near.

She looked away from him, taking in the still silences of the night, searching the nearby benches for someone—anyone—who might be responsible for the envelope. But there was no one. Not even the homeless man who had approached them moments ago was in sight. From all appearances, they were alone on the Mall.

“Open it,” she said in a voice he barely recognized. Commanding. Determined. Tough.

On the reflex of his military training, Mark obeyed immediately, slitting the envelope and pulling out the contents.

“This isn't possible…” he breathed as the image registered in his brain. “How is this possible?”

Erica took the sheet of paper from his hands, processed the image in a glance and turned it over, reading the red writing with every outward appearance of absolute calm.

“'Stay out of Billingham, nigger bitch. This is your last warning.'” Her eyes searched his. “Who's doing this? How are they doing this?”

Mark slid the picture out of her hands. It was another grainy copy, printed out on plain white paper instead of glossy photo stock.

“I don't know,” he answered. “No one knew we were going in there. The bathroom was empty, you sent the attendant out. We were completely alone.”

“Apparently not,” Erica said with that same grim determination. She took the photo from him and frowned at it so severely, Mark felt an unanticipated sense of dismay.

Was it that bad?
he wondered, to have been captured in his arms, in the ladies' room of a pricey downtown restaurant, captured looking like she was kissing him with all the love and passion her body possessed?

Of course, there was the fact that her dress was up to her waist and his hand was somewhere best left to the imagination…but they were both single, both unencumbered, both of legal age. It was embarrassing, certainly, for both of them. But he didn't regret it. Did she?

He stared down into her face as she studied the picture, trying hard to decipher her expression. When she looked up at him with a frown etched into her face, he felt his heart sink.

She's going to say the party's over. She's going to say she doesn't want to see me again.

“I have plenty of reservations about you…and
about me and you,” she said, an expression in her lovely brown eyes that foretold a war he didn't want to fight. “But apparently someone has even more serious ones,” she murmured. “And my gut tells me that Bitsi woman is at the bottom of this.”

Mark relaxed. Not good-bye. Just this again. “Erica. I told you—”

“I know what you told me. But that's what my gut says.”

Bitsi.

She was protective as all hell—and she'd made it more than clear, she didn't like Erica Johnson. Not one bit. But to stoop to this level? He found himself shaking his head. No. Whatever the tensions between himself and Bitsi, he couldn't believe she'd do anything to hurt him or someone he loved.

Mark inhaled sharply.
Love
. The word kept rolling around in his consciousness and tumbling out of his mouth like it intended to take up permanent residence.

“What's wrong?” Erica asked, her brow crinkling with concern.

“Nothing,” he answered quickly. “Stomach's still a little off, that's all.” And he was glad it wasn't a lie. His tofu burger was turning in his stomach like a top and suddenly his mouth was dry. He pulled the photo from her fingers again and stuffed into his pocket. “I'm going to show this to Sergeant McAfee.”

“He's already told you, he can't do anything,” she reminded him at the mention of the stiff-lipped Capitol police detective who'd responded to the call about the first photo. “It's addressed to me. It's out of his jurisdiction.”

Mark thought for only a moment, but everything within him reached the same conclusion. “I think he should know,” he told her. “It's pretty clear now
whoever's doing this is following us. And unless I miss my guess, it's pretty clear there's only one way to flush this wannabe stalker out of his—”

“—or her,” Erica interrupted.

“Or her hiding place,” Mark continued.

“And what's that?”

Mark leaned toward her. He was close enough to feel her breath, warm and steady in his ear, close enough for the curls of her unruly hair to brush against his chin. He wanted to gather her into his arms right then, right there, and dare the unknown photographer to take his next shot. But he settled for running his finger down the length of her cheek.

“We just need to keep doing what we're doing,” he whispered. “Whatever the hell that is.”

“We're sitting way back here? I was sure we would be in first class or something,” Angelique griped, as they took seats in the rear of the airplane. “Is he sitting up front? Because if he is—”

“I don't know where he's sitting,” Erica replied, watching the travelers boarding the plane around them. She couldn't even see the first class cabin from here. A quip—something along the lines of “I bet he's up there having his feet massaged at taxpayer expense”—bubbled on her lips, but she pressed it back. He might be sitting in first class…and he might not. From what she was getting to know about Mark Newman, she couldn't be sure. After all, she'd been surprised to find there wasn't a private jet waiting—they were flying commercial.

“I wanted to sit in first class,” Angelique pouted, settling her carry-on luggage into the space beneath the seat in front of her. Really it was just the laptop and her purse. Lately the laptop had been getting a lot of play. A heck of a lot of play.

“You're lucky to have a chair at all,” Erica reminded her. “I had to give up some pretty valuable leverage to get you here. Remember that.”

“Your personal bodyguard and cheering section.” Angelique struggled to cross her legs in the narrow space between the rows. “That's me.” She sighed. “Always a bridesmaid. Never a bride.”

Erica rolled her eyes. “No one's getting married, Angelique. As weird as this whole thing's getting, marriage is the last thing—”

“Shh.” Angelique slapped at her arm, her voice lowering to a hiss. “Here he comes.”

And sure enough, there he came, limping down the plane's narrow aisle looking a little tired and a little pale, but in spite of those facts, as handsome as ever. Erica felt her heart give its usual little hiccup of attraction, along with that strong, sudden sexual pull.

“Someone's a little excited,” Angelique teased, nodding toward Erica's long-sleeved “America's been Bush-whacked” T-shirt, which suddenly had two nipple-sized peaks right in the center.

“Be quiet.” Erica crossed her arms to hide the evidence, just as Newman approached them.

“Hello, Angelique,” he said, beaming friendliness at Erica's friend, as though he had been in the habit of seeing her daily. “Thanks for coming.”

“Thanks for the ticket.” Angelique grinned back at him, like he was old buddy.

But Mark's attention had shifted away from the other woman, and Erica felt herself under its intense heat.

“Hey there,” he drawled. “What's the shirt say?”

“Nothing you're going to like,” Erica said quickly without lowering her arms.

He grinned at her like he knew exactly why her arms stayed crossed over her chest and leaned even closer.

“Well, you might want to change it,” he suggested. “You're heading into hostile territory, remember?”
His gaze shifted toward Angelique again. “Maybe you two can swap in the ladies' room…” He winked. “Again.”

Angelique opened her mouth to say something that Erica was pretty sure would be highly critical of her roommate's wardrobe, but Erica refused her the opportunity.

“I thought that was the point,” she said firmly. “To make my opposition clear—and allow your constituents to rally around you as the defender of the free world?”
Ha! Sank your battleship
, she thought as his grin dimmed to that irritated smirk. He opened his mouth, and Erica steeled herself for his comeback.

“We don't have time for this, Mark,” Bitsi's harsh voice interjected. “We hit the ground running, with a Q & A in Billingham. The advance word is, it's going to be tough. We just barely carried that district six years ago, and the folks are even more critical now. You've got to be ready, Mark.”

“I know, I know,” Mark grumbled, waving her away. “You go on and sit. I'm coming.”

Bitsi shot them an evil glare and squeezed past him toward the very last row of seats, about three rows behind where Erica and Angelique sat.

“Need a favor, Angelique,” Mark drawled in his honey sweet, up-to-no-good voice. “Chase needs to sit with Erica. Brief her a bit on what to expect. So, my dear lady, if you wouldn't mind moving back a row…”

Angelique popped out of her seat like she had springs and moved into the seat behind them, beside a youngish-looking man in a blue baseball cap and sunglasses. His head was turned toward the window and his mouth was half open in the way of one asleep.

“Sure, Mark,” Angelique replied in her normal, a-little-loud street voice, oblivious to the man or his
evident fatigue. “But you know what I think would be the best thing for Erica?”

“What?”

A sly grin spread across Angelique's face. “If
you
sat there and…you know. Briefed her, or debriefed her or—”

“I like the way you think.” Mark chuckled.

Who died and made you Cupid, stupid?
The words were on the tip of Erica's tongue when Chase huffed down the aisle and tossed his carry-on into the overhead.

“Ready?” he asked, sliding into the seat Angelique had so recently vacated, looking up at Mark and then over at Erica.

To Erica's surprise, Mark leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, leaving the spot burning with the desire for more. Much more.

“Take care of her, Chase,” he said. He stumped away from them toward the back of the plane. Erica turned, watching him take his seat, stretching the damaged right leg out into the aisle. He caught her eye, winked and then turned toward Bitsi with a ready-to-work expression.

Bitsi wasn't looking at him. She was staring at Erica with an expression of such determined malevolence, Erica felt almost as though she'd been slapped.

 

What a ride.

Newman needed a private jet, considering how heated his staff got in their preparations. Although she'd read the itinerary carefully, Chase had gone over it in great detail: Mark was attending black-tie events, mixed in with pancake suppers and church services. Town meetings and closed-door sessions with state leaders. It was clear that Newman was in for a busy week, and so was she. And other than a
couple of school visits, she was due to be pretty ignorant and pretty uncomfortable most of the week. Except for when war was the topic, Erica knew very little about the issues of Newman's home state: farm subsidies and coal mining, resource development and smalltown initiatives.

“Who committed me to
that
?” Erica heard Mark ask once from the rows behind her, with more than a little irritation evident in his tone. “You know I'm as useless as a one-armed paper hanger at those things.”

And for once, Bitsi's usually strident voice dropped into a low tone Erica couldn't hear. Then Mark's voice, loud and still annoyed, barked out.

“I'd rather just take Erica. Can't we do that?”

There was a sudden silence behind her, and Erica itched to turn her head to see their faces, but Chase was trying to tell her something about this afternoon's event with an earnestness that made her want to at least seem like she was listening to the man. But whatever Mark had proposed he “just take her to” was floating past Bitsi like a lead balloon.

“I'm not sure that's such a good idea,” Erica thought she heard the blonde woman saying.

“Why?” Mark asked, sounding genuinely curious. “She's every bit as attractive as that newscaster woman you're always setting me up with. And unlike that woman, she's actually got a brain.”

“I doubt she has anything appropriate to wear. The event isn't on her schedule and we don't have a week to make her over enough to be acceptable for this kind of thing, so—”

“Oh come on.” Mark's voice cut through her bullshit with the acid of annoyance. “I'm sure we can find her an appropriate dress with a little effort. I want her to go. I think it would be good.”

Silence. Erica could almost feel the skinny woman searching for a way to break it to him, but she said nothing.

“Everyone knows she's with me this week. What's the problem?” Mark asked again.

“No problem,” Bitsi said in clipped, brusque voice that let everyone in earshot know that she had plenty of problems…and most of them started and ended with Erica Johnson.

 

When the plane touched ground, Erica wished she'd done what the writer of those nasty little letters had wanted and stayed home.

The airport, a long flat space surrounded by trees, looked like it was miles from any kind of civilization. Erica leaned toward the window and was shocked to see cornfields growing on the wide spaces bordering the tarmac. The air-traffic control tower rose out of the dying yellow stalks like a lighthouse in a brown sea. Erica peered across the aisle, staring toward the opposite window, hoping for a city view, but was met with more cornfields.

“Where the heck are we?” she asked, not really expecting an answer.

A few minutes before landing, Bitsi had appeared at Chase's shoulder.

“He wants her to come sit with him,” she said, doing her best not to look directly at Erica. “He wants to talk to her.”

Erica ignored the looks Chase and Angelique tossed in her direction and moved down the aisle, sliding past Mark into the empty seat beside him without making him get up.

“Welcome to my home,” he said in a voice that had lost all the sophistication of Washington and sang with the pride of Dixie. He stared past her out
the window, a slight smile softening his features. “Home,” he repeated, his fingers finding hers and squeezing, gently. “We're home.”

She wanted to snatch her fingers away, but she couldn't. Because it was there again: that weirdo feeling of safety and certainty, as if it were somehow the most natural thing in the world to be sitting here with this unlikely man, holding his hand and staring at cornfields while the jet taxied slowly up to the gate and the passengers started to rise, gather their belongings and press toward the exit. Mark released her hand and felt around the seat, searching for something.

“See you tonight, Mark,” Chase called back to them as he headed for the front.

“Seven,” Mark answered.

“St. Matthew's Episcopal Church.” Bitsi's tone said she expected the words to be forgotten as soon as she spoke them. “Directions are on your date book.”

“I know where St. Matthew's is, Bits,” Mark gave her that trademark smirk. “I've been to services there a thousand times over the years.”

“Well”—Bitsi's eyes flickered over Erica again, this time with something akin to jealousy in them—“don't be late. Nestor will meet you at the Q &A, so—”

“I won't be late for that, either.”

Bitsi frowned, and then turned toward Angelique. “Come on,” she said in a tone only slightly more pleasant than the one she used with Erica. “I'll take you over to Dickson's Inn. That's where you'll be staying.”

For the first time, Angelique looked a little nervous. “I thought I was going to the Q & A,” she said, glancing at Erica. “Moral support and all that.”

“You're going to the Town Meeting,” Bitsi replied. “Not the Q & A. Now come on—”

Angelique refused to budge until Erica nodded at her.

“I think I'll be okay. Go ahead.”

Angie frowned, but in the end she, too, made her way up the narrow airplane aisle. As her slender form disappeared onto the jetway, Erica thought she felt other eyes on her, as though she were being stared at. She scanned the passengers, but no eyes were aimed in her direction. None at all. Even the man in the ball cap and sunglasses finally ambled up the aisle, rubbing at his chin and stretching as though he'd slept the entire trip.

Erica gathered up her things and waited, expecting Mark to move. The plane was quickly emptying, only a few others were lingering in their seats, and the aisle was clear. But Mark didn't move at all. He just kept staring out the window, waiting for something. Erica had no clue what until all the other passengers had deplaned.

“Senator?” A flight attendant leaned over them. “It's all clear now.”

“Thank you,” Mark murmured, but still waited, tapping his cane gently against the carpet until the flight crew had also gathered their things and left the plane.

“I'm sorry to make you wait so long, Erica,” he said at last, staring at his shoes.

“Is this some kind of security concern?”

He shook his head.

“I don't really buy into all that security stuff,” he said, shaking his head. “I know some of my colleagues hire bodyguards, but for me, it's a waste of money. People in my state didn't send me to Washington to get a big staff and a big head. I did call my friends at the state police about you, though. They'll have both uniformed and plainclothes officers at all
our events and one at the inn, just in case. But that's not why we're still sitting here on an empty plane.”

Erica nodded, appreciating the precautions. “Okay, then why
are
we still sitting here?”

A self-deprecating smile lifted the corners of his lips and he shot her a quick glance. “It's more…personal.” He hooked the cane over his arm and braced his weight on the back of the seat in front of him. “You and me—we've already been through a lot together, right?”

Erica hesitated, frowning at him. “Right…”

“Well, looks like I'm trusting you with a little more, okay?”

“Trusting me with what, Mark? What's—”

He let out a groan of pain that echoed in the empty plane. “Shit, shit, shit,” he cursed in absolute agony as he limped into the aisle, grasping his knee. “Oh shit…”

“Are you all right?” Erica stumbled out behind him as he crumpled against the back of the nearest seat, wrapping her arms around him as if she could support him. “What is it? Do you want me to get someone?—”

“No, no.” He shook his head. Erica stared up into his face. His eyes were screwed tightly shut and his face was pale and slick with sweat. “It passes,” he said in a tight voice. “I just…have to…work out…the stiffness…my cane…”