The Plot
By
Kathleen McCabe Lamarche
The hollow echo of
Cassandra's footsteps followed her through the semi-darkness of the cavernous
parking garage. Squinting
into every shadow, studying every broad concrete column, she watched for any
movement, listened for any sound, and clutched the red canister of pepper gas
in her right hand. It
wasn't being alone that she feared as she hurried toward her car in the far corner. It was not
being alone. Muggers
and rapists haunted parking garages, and she cursed the committee that had
decided security was only needed after dark. It was always dark in here.
As she neared her burgundy
Mercedes, a sudden scuffling sound drew her attention to the left. Tensing, she
searched the shadows for its source, acutely aware of the canister in her hand,
then breathed again as a pair of pigeons scurried from beneath a car and flew
into the eaves. Covering
the remaining few steps to her car, she unlocked the door and slid gratefully
onto the white leather seat, locking the door immediately. "What a world we live in,"
she sighed and, starting the engine, backed into the exit lane. She checked the
clock on her dashboard.
Deadline was fast approaching.
The cell phone rang as she
pulled out onto the busy street. "Cassandra Hart," she
answered, annoyed. It
was probably her editor.
"Hi, Cassie. It's Daddy."
"Well, hi there,
stranger," she answered, steering left-handed around a construction crew. "Are you still
in
"No, I'm at
She slowed her car to allow
a jaywalker to cross in front of her. "Well, I'd like to, but I
promised my editor I'd be back right after lunch. My article's due by
She could almost feel her
father's frown. "Cassie,
I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."
Oh, boy. She recognized that tone. "Why? What's going on?"
He hesitated a moment. "I can't talk
about it over the phone.
Let's just say, I've got a story that's gonna blow the lid
off the election."
Cassie pulled over into a No
Parking zone. She
couldn't talk intelligently and drive at the same time. "Can't you tell me about it this
evening? We
could have dinner."
"I won't be here this
evening." He
sounded tense. "I've
gotta catch the three-thirty flight to
"Well, couldn't we talk
about it when you get back?" She'd missed last week's deadline and
dreaded another scene with her editor.
"Honey, I'm racing against
time. Even a
few days..."
He paused a long moment as if making up his mind, then gave a
long sigh. "Cassie,
I'm about to expose a conspiracy that's poised to rock the foundations of this
nation. If I
didn't have hard proof, even you wouldn't believe me." He hesitated again. When he spoke, his tone was even more
serious. "This
is the most important book I've ever written. It's a sure bet to win the Pulitzer--if
I can find a publisher."
"What do you mean
'if'?" she asked.
There wasn't a publisher in
"It's so hot, nobody's
gonna want to touch it," he said, almost whispering.
She pursed her lips,
considering his words.
The clock read "
"Don't worry about Sue,
Cassie. She
seems gruff, but she's really a good egg."
Overwhelmed by curiosity and
the intensity in her father's voice, Cassie couldn't refuse. "Okay. I'm on my way. See you in about thirty minutes."
She heard the smile in his
reply. "Good
girl. I'll be
waiting for you in front.
Oh, and Cassie?
Keep this under your hat." He hung up without saying goodbye.
Cassie contemplated calling
her editor but decided against it. No point in getting her riled up. "All I have to
do is get back by two-thirty," she told herself aloud. "That'll give me enough time to
finish the article--in fact, Daddy might give me a good idea for the
conclusion." She
grinned. I
can tell Sue I was tied up by some last minute research.
* * *
Traffic was always heavy
when Congress was in session, and it seemed to take forever to get onto the
Beltway. In a
few days, they'd be leaving town for their August recess, and D.C. would be
markedly more pleasant--if less interesting.
The blazing sun made
water-mirages on the highway and beat through the windshield as she wound in
and out of the slower traffic. "Daddy's story isn't the only
thing that's hot in this town today," she grumbled aloud. Turning the air conditioner to
maximum, she thought of the various conspiracies that littered history. There was
Watergate, of course. And
Chinagate. The murder of Julius Caesar. The crucifixion of
Christ could be termed a conspiracy. Had the assassinations of Lincoln, the
Kennedys, and Martin Luther King been conspiracies? Lots of people
thought so. Of
course, there were those who were always looking for some conspiracy to explain
the unexplainable. Their
theories cluttered the Internet, many of them so far-fetched they were
laughable.
But some conspiracies were
real--and definitely not laughable. The attacks on the
Conspiracies always involve
power, she thought as she turned onto the road leading to
Passing the big sign
announcing the airport entrance, Cassie pressed a little harder on the
accelerator, then slowed the car as she turned off the
highway and approached the terminal where her impatient father would be
waiting.
The traffic ahead of her
crawled, and Cassie grimaced.
Typical D.C. foul up. The cars in the right lanes were
at a complete standstill, and drivers jockeyed for position to get around the
crush. Cassie
waved her arm out the window as a cabbie drew up behind her in the left lane. He frowned but
allowed her to squeeze her car in front of his, and she smiled at him. Salt of the earth,
she thought, looking in the rear view mirror at the scowling cab driver. Yes, sir. Salt of the earth.
The pickup truck in front of
her and a stalled airport van on the right spewing steam from its engine made
it impossible to see the cause of the traffic jam until she was almost on top
of it. A born rubbernecker, she stopped her car and looked over her
shoulder toward the people milling around an ambulance and police car. Oddly, the crowd
seemed to part, and Cassie found herself staring at her father's bloodied body
lying on the asphalt.
Oh, my God! She strained to get
a better look, but the crowd had knit itself back together as suddenly as it
had parted. It
can't be Daddy. My
eyes are playing tricks on me. Frantic, she shifted into park and
jumped out. Forcing
her way through the gawkers, she caught a glimpse of
short silver hair mottled with blood. Lots of men have short silver hair,
she told herself, shoving past a heavy-set woman. The man in front of her turned to
speak to someone, and Cassie spied a worn, brown leather suitcase lying half
open off to the left. It
can't be him, her brain insisted, but her heart lurched at the sight of the
hand-painted red, white, and blue striped necktie like the one she had given
her father to wear on Independence Day. A policeman stepped in front of her
and grabbed her arm, trying to pull her away, but she yanked it from his grasp. "That's my
father," she snapped, pushing the startled officer out of her way as
she went to kneel beside the still figure, whose left side seemed sunken into
itself and left leg lay at an odd angle to his body.
Disjointed voices filtered
to her ears. "Hit
and run...saw it all...black sports car...out of nowhere." Her own voice blended into the mix as
she reached out to touch her father's bloody forehead. "Daddy? It's Cassie, Daddy. Oh, Daddy..." His blue eyes
stared vacantly up at her.
No. Not
blue. Gray. His lips are blue. No. That's not right. Lips aren't blue. Eyes are.
A
sudden movement drew her attention to the paramedic kneeling across from her. "No,
don't," she objected, but he didn't seem to hear her as he gently closed
the dead man's eyes, detached the monitors and handed them to his partner. When he turned to
face her, his brown eyes were soft, his full lips drawn into a tight line. "I'm sorry,
Miss. We were
just too late. There
wasn't anything we could do.
I'm sorry."
Cassie stared blankly at him
for a moment, then looked at the motionless body lying before her. Slowly, she
withdrew her hand from her father's cold forehead and studied the sticky blood
that clung to her fingers.
Her stomach knotted. She felt sick. Dammit! Daddy's dead, and all I can feel is
sick? She
closed her eyes and shook her bowed head. Dear God. Help me.
A pair of strong hands
closed around her elbows, lifting her to her feet, and she blinked, trying to
bring the round face of a policeman into focus.
"Excuse me, Miss, but
did you say that the victim is your father?" He motioned toward the limp body on
the pavement as he spoke.
Victim? Daddy? She looked down at her
father's ashen face, then back at the policeman, and
nodded.
"I need to get some
information from you," he said. His voice was soft and deep, and he
spoke with a slow drawl.
Or maybe she was just hearing him slowly.
"I… What?" she asked, trying to make
sense of his words.
Glancing at the crowd, he
took her arm and guided her a few steps away. "You know. Your name and address," he said,
taking a small notebook from the left breast pocket of his dark uniform. "Phone number. Victim's name,
stuff like that. There'll
be an investigation, and..." His pen was poised above the
blue-lined paper.
Yes. An investigation. Somebody killed Daddy. Somebody killed
him, and somebody has to find out who. She took a deep breath and gave him the
information he asked for, then turned to watch the paramedics place her
father's body onto the gurney, covering him from head to toe with a white sheet. When they wheeled
him to the ambulance and placed him inside, she blinked hard against the tears
that stung the corners of her eyes. We didn't even get to say goodbye.
An airport security guard
approached as Cassie started toward the ambulance. "Uh, Miss? I'm sorry, but, uh, your car is
blocking traffic."
Cassie looked at him, then
at the swarm of cars, and was suddenly aware of the honking and cursing of
frustrated drivers. "The
keys are in it," she replied. "But, I need to go with..." She gestured
toward the ambulance.
"It's okay. We'll take care of
it. Just give
us a call when you're ready to pick it up." He patted her on the shoulder, then
turned and picked his way through the chaos, motioning as he went for the angry
drivers to calm down.
Everything
was under control.