Where are you going? she asked.

To get my father, he said without turning around. She watched until he disappeared into the forest. While he was gone, Sara limped into the trailer and cleaned herself up in the small bathroom. She spotted Fiskes suit and shoes and carried them out to her car. She ran her hand along the smooth metal surface of the flagpole and wondered if Ed would manage to raise the Stars and Stripes today. Maybe he would, at half-mast, in memory of his son. Perhaps mourningbothsons? She began trembling with that thought, moved away from the flagpole and leaned up against her car. She scanned the woods nervously as though anticipating the abrupt charge of all sorts of terror from its underbelly. An elderly woman came out of the trailer next door and stopped when she saw Sara. Sara smiled in an embarrassed fashion. Im, uh, a friend of John Fiskes.

The woman nodded. Well, good morning.

Good morning to you too.

The woman disappeared down the road toward the cottage. Sara looked anxiously back toward the woods, clutching her hands together. Come on, John. Please, come on.

Fifteen minutes later the golf cart came into view. Fiske was driving. His father was slumped in the rear, apparently asleep. Fiske pulled up to the trailer, got out, carefully lifted his father and put him over his shoulder. He marched up the steps and disappeared inside. He came out a few minutes later carrying the shotgun.

Hes asleep, Fiske said.

Whats that for? Sara pointed at the weapon.

Im not leaving it here with him.

You dont think hed shoot anybody.

No, but I dont want him sticking it in his mouth and pulling the trigger either. Guns, alcohol and bad news dont mix real well. He put the shotgun in the back seat of the car. Youd better let me drive.

Your clothes are in the trunk.

They climbed in the car and a minute later were back at the owners cottage. Fiske went in and slapped four singles down for the guest fee. He bought some pastries and a couple cartons of orange juice. The woman who had greeted Sara was also there. I saw your lady friend, John. Real cute girl.

Uh-huh.

You leaving already?

Yep.

Ill bet your daddy wishes you were staying longer.

Fiske paid for the food and didnt wait for a bag. Ill take that bet, he told the puzzled woman, before heading back out to the car. ["C33"]CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Samuel Rider arrived at his office early after being away a few days for business. Sheila hadnt come in yet. It was just as well, since Rider wanted to be alone. He picked up his phone and called Fort Jackson, identified himself as Harmss attorney and asked to speak with him.

Hes no longer here.

Excuse me? Hes serving a life sentence. Where exactly could he have gone?

Im sorry, but Im not allowed to give out that information over the phone. If you would like to come down in person or make an official inquiry in writing

Rider slammed down the phone and collapsed in his chair. Was Rufus dead? Had they somehow discovered what he was up to? Once Rider had filed the appeal with the Supreme Court, Rufus should have had instant security. Rider clamped his fingers around the edge of his desk.Ifit had reached the Court. He tore open his desk drawer and pulled out the white receipt with the tracking number on it. The green receipt should have come back to his office. Sheila! He jumped up and raced to Sheilas work area. Normally, any return receipts would be included in the appropriate case file. However, there was no case file for Rufus Harms. What could she have done with the damn receipt? As if in answer to his thoughts, the woman herself walked in the door. She was surprised to see him.

Why, youre in awful early, Mr. Rider.

Rider assumed a casual tone. Trying to catch up on a few things. He edged away from her desk; however, she had picked up on his intentions.

Are you looking for something?

Well, now that you mention it, I was, actually. I had sent a letter out and, you know, I had sent it return receipt requested, and then it occurred to me that I hadnt told you anything about it. Stupid of me.

Her next words brought an inward sigh of relief.

So thats what that was. At first I thought I had forgotten to open a case file. I was meaning to ask you about it when you got back.

So you got it back, then, Rider said, trying to veil his eagerness. Sheila opened a drawer of her desk and pulled out a green receipt. The United States Supreme Court, she said with awe, passing it over to him. I remember thinking, are we going to be doing something with them or what?

Rider put on his best lawyers face. Naw, Sheila, just something to do with a bar function. We dont need to look to Washington for our daily bread.

Oh, here are your phone messages that came in while you were out of town. I tried to prioritize them for you.

He gave her hand a nice squeeze. Youre the essence of efficiency, he said gallantly. She smiled and started to fuss at her desk. Rider went back to his office, closed the door and looked down at the receipt. The filing had been delivered. The signature was right there. But then where was Rufus? Rider planned to spend much of the morning in meetings discussing the possible development of a shopping mall on a vast tract of land that had been used since the forties as an auto wrecking yard. One of the men he was meeting with had flown a prop plane into Blacksburg, Virginia, from Washington early that morning and was driving over to Riders office. With everything on his mind it was all Rider could do to act normal when the man arrived at his office a while later. The man had brought with him a copy of the morningsWashington Post. While the man accepted a cup of coffee from Sheila, Rider idly ran his eye over thePostsheadlines. One in particular caught his attention. The man noticed what Rider was doing.

Damn shame, he said, nodding at the story Rider was focused on. One of the best and brightest, he said as Rider silently mouthed the headline again:SUPREME COURT CLERK SLAIN.

Did you know him? Rider asked. It couldnt be connected. There was no way in hell.

No. But if he was clerking up there, you know he had to be top of the top. Murdered too. Shows you how dangerous times have become. Nobodys safe anymore.

Rider stared at him for a moment, and then looked down at the paper and the accompanying photo. Michael Fiske, age thirty. He had earned a Ph.D. from Columbia University and then gone on to the University of Virginia Law School, where he had been editor-in-chief of theLaw Review. He was the senior law clerk for Justice Thomas Murphy. No suspects, no clues, other than a missing wallet.Nobodys safe anymore. He tightly gripped the paper as he stared at the grainy, depressing photo of the dead man. It couldnt be. However, there was one way to find out. He excused himself and slipped into his office, where he called the Supreme Court clerks office.

We have no case with the name Harms, sir, either on the regular or IFP docket.

But Ive got a return receipt that shows it was delivered to you people. The voice on the other end again delivered the perfunctory message.

Dont you have some way of keeping track of your mail up there? The polite answer Rider received did not sit well with him. He yelled into the phone. Rufus Harms is rotting in the damn stockade and you people cant keep track of your mail. He threw down the phone. Somewhere between its arrival and the point where a case was actually placed in the official system, Rufus Harmss filing had apparently disappeared. And so had Rufus Harms. Rider suddenly felt chilled. Rider looked down once more at the newspaper. And a Supreme Court clerk had been murdered. It all seemed so far-fetched, but then so had the story Rufus told him. Then another thought hit him even harder: If they had killed Rufus and the clerk, they surely wouldnt stop there. If they had what Rider had filed with the Court, then they would know that Rider had played a role in all of it. That meant he could be next on their hit list. But come on, he told himself, youre just being paranoid. And thats when it finally dawned on him. The sheaf of phone messages that Sheila had collected while he had been away. He had idly skimmed through them, returning the ones he felt were most important. The name, the damn name. He clawed through his desk until he found the pink pieces of paper. His hands flew through them, scanning, scanning, finally ripping the pile apart in his rising anxiety, until he found it. He looked down at the name, the blood slowly draining from his face. Michael Fiske had called him. Twice. Oh, my God.In an avalanche of thought, visions of his wife, the condo in Florida, his grown children, all the years of billable hours, flew through his mind. Well, damn if he was waiting around for them to come get him. He punched his intercom and told Sheila he wasnt feeling well, to convey that to his visitor and the other gentlemen who would shortly arrive, and accommodate them any way she could.