The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [107]
Dina grimaced. She had absolutely no desire to know what that something might be.
She forced herself into a seated position and leaned back against the wall, considering her options.
“Shit,” she muttered as she realized she had no options.
“Are you comfortable?” a voice whispered through the darkness.
Dina sat tensely. The headlights had flashed briefly through the window, but the footsteps had been so soft that she’d not heard them, even though she’d strained her ears, waiting. “Not especially.”
“Good.” The voice was deep and hoarse, raspy, low, as it had been on the phone.
“Let’s see. Mrs. Dillon, right?”
“The name isn’t Dillon.”
“Well, I know I’m surprised.”
“Are you getting acclimated to your accommodations?”
“Oh, sure.” Dina glanced around at the dark, dusty room that contained her and fought back the panic.
“Of course, you don’t have to stay here, you know.”
“And you’re just about to tell me what I have to do to get out, right?”
“All you have to do is tell me where to find Jude.”
“Oh, of course. I tell you where to find Jude, and you untie me and unlock the door. Right after you slit my throat.” Dina paused, willing her voice not to quiver with fear. “Or will you take me outside and lay me on the road so that you can drive over me a couple of times, since that seems to be your favorite MO.”
“Maybe tomorrow after you’ve spent a night here you’ll have something useful to tell me.”
There was the sound of something like pellets scattering through the broken window, then bouncing along the floor.
“What was that?” Dina asked warily.
“Corn,” the voice replied.
“Corn?” Dina frowned. Corn?
“To make sure you have lots of company tonight.” The footsteps hadn’t yet passed the door when the first of Dina’s company arrived. She heard the faint rustling grow louder.
“Oh, God, not mice . . . I hate mice. . . .” She shuddered.
She drew her feet up as close to her body as she could and shrank back against the wall and fought back the anxiety that was steadily building inside her.
“At least I hope they’re only mice. . . .”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Simon tried to keep his eyes fixed on the road ahead and not on the enormous ship that was approaching the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel on his right and hoped that he’d be on his way out of the tunnel before the ship was passing over it. As many times as he’d taken this route, he still felt a twinge of discomfort every time he slipped into one of the two tunnels when there was a large ship in the vicinity. He was always somewhat relieved to see the light at the end of that mile-long dip under the bay and happy when he reached the causeway or one of the bridges again. And happier still when he reached solid land, though he admitted that only to himself. How much more so at night, when, like now, the bridge seemed to disappear into the blackness and appeared to be little more than strings of Christmas lights strung over the bay.
Simon had stayed later than he’d planned in Virginia Beach, since he’d arrived at Conrad Fritz’s home in the morning only to learn that the man had gone out at dawn on a charter boat and wasn’t expected back until late in the day. Late in the day had turned out to be a little past 7:00 P.M. Simon had just about given up his watch when the new Buick pulled into the Fritz driveway and the object of his search stepped out.
Unfortunately, Fritz was no greater help than Stinson had been.
Fritz acknowledged that he’d known about Hayward’s affair with Blythe. And yes, he had known about Hayward’s stated desire to not run for a second term. But according to Fritz, he’d been the one to talk him out of that.
“I told him, ‘Graham, you’re a damn fool. That woman will still be there when you’ve done your duty.