The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [151]
“Yes, Sergeant?”
“The crippled driver—he tackled the men …” A predictable description of stupidity under the guise of heroism followed.
Silence.
“Where’s the boy?”
“In a tree house. Should we grab him?”
Applying force was an art. Often a threat was more effective than an action, and Senator Palmer was unpredictable. “No, leave him there.”
With a final glance to the dim van’s interior and the four men hunched before surveillance and communications stations, she turned to the sergeant by the side door. “Get my car and let’s pay a visit to our friend.”
Palmer snapped from his reverie at the buzzing sound of the main entrance gate opening. Besides his daughter and her husband, only Mrs. Timmons and Hawkins had access cards, but he doubted any of them had opened the gate.
At the kitchen, he glanced at a split screen offering different views of the estate. A dark sedan was progressing along the graveled road to the house.
He sighed, his mind replaying Seth’s trial before the gods. I have the lettuce leaf loaded for you. He walked toward the main door, opened it, and stepped onto the porch in time to see Odelle Marino alighting from her car, chaperoned by two young men with lively eyes. Another woman, the driver, remained behind the wheel. Let’s see if you wolf it down.
“Madam Director, what a pleasant surprise.”
“Thank you, Senator, I was passing by and I thought I’d pay you a visit.” She climbed the steps and offered her hand for a dry, warm, strong handshake.
“Please, come in.” Palmer pointed to the open door and led the way into the house and his study. “We’ll be more comfortable here.”
She told her bodyguards to wait by the car.
As they entered Palmer’s den, the clock whirred to follow with twelve evenly spaced thwacks. Odelle spied the contraption, one inquisitive eyebrow flexing upward.
“Ah, the clock …” Palmer chuckled. “A long story. Coffee, tea, something stronger?”
“Thank you, Senator, nothing. I will be leaving shortly.” From her handbag, she drew a flat frequency analyzer. “May I?”
“Be my guest.”
After a while, apparently satisfied, she made as if to sit on an easy chair but seemed to think better of it. She glanced through the twin glazed doors leading to the back garden and smiled. “You have a wonderful garden. Could we take a stroll?”
“Of course. Here, let me.” Palmer gripped the handle and slid one of the doors aside.
“Senator, this is truly magnificent.”
Palmer offered her a dazzling smile. “Madam, I’d rather you cut the bullshit, deliver your pitch, and get the hell out of my house.”
Her composure never cracked. “I admire your professionalism. Business first.”
“Only, in this instance, the pleasure is all yours.”
She drew closer and gripped his arm. “Charming as usual.” Then her voice altered and dropped—low, throaty. “You’ve been a naughty boy, Senator, stealing something of mine. I suppose that, as he is your son, you have a claim of sorts on Russo, but I find your sudden discovery of earth-shattering paternal love gratuitous. You could have acted like a real father, given him an education, and taught him to be a man, whatever that means. Instead, you sired a despicable bastard and got rid of him. But let bygones be bygones.”
They continued strolling arm in arm toward the center of the lawn. “Your driver was killed on his way to work.”
Palmer whirled and grabbed her wrist. “You bitch!”
Instead of backing off, Odelle drew near until her breasts brushed Palmer’s chest. Her mouth twisted. “It was an accident. The man tackled four DHS officers from the Special Forces, bare-handed. Epic, but a waste. Don’t worry. His car will explode somewhere. Accidents happen every day.”
“Have you finished?” Palmer fought to control his mounting rage.
“Here is my deal. I want Russo back. As soon as you deliver him, I will have him disappear with the rest of the center inmates without a trace; they would have never existed. Then I will tender my resignation. You’ll be able to clean the stables and bring Hypnos to heel. That’s what you’ve wanted all along, isn’t it?”
Odelle