Goliad’s update wasn’t what Delores and Richard Hunt had expected to hear, and the news certainly didn’t go over well with either.

Following their bodyguard’s last call, Richard had demanded to know everything Delores had been withholding from him about the situation in Howardville. She had laid out the facts the way a blackjack dealer dealt cards, methodically, one at a time. After each, Richard had calculated his odds of winning the hand or losing huge.

He’d been dismayed over how badly the job had been botched, and angry at Delores for glossing over the worst of it. “All I got was a weather report!” he’d shouted.

Her only defense had been that she’d wanted to prevent him from worrying.

“I appreciate that consideration,” he’d told her in an effort to suppress the full ferocity of his anger. “By the same token, I resent being kept in the dark. Don’t do it again. Ever.”

He had accepted her tearful apology along with her promise not to hold back anything from now on, no matter how dire circumstances became. She’d sealed her promise with a kiss and reminded him that the situation wasn’t all that bleak.

No one knew of his connection to any of last night’s events. No one knew of his illness. The media had believed the statement his office had released about their plans for the holiday: They were spending a quiet Thanksgiving alone at their beloved estate in Georgia. They welcomed a respite from the Washington social scene. They valued their time together at home. Blah blah blah.

With confidence, she had said, “We encountered some speed bumps, but they’re behind us now. I have Nate’s assurance that all is well.”

Her confidence had been premature.

Dr. Brynn O’Neal’s whereabouts were unknown. Goliad and his nitwit partner had lost track of her.

Propped up in bed with pillows behind his back, Delores at his side, Richard had assumed the facial expression that opposition senators hated to see at the podium during a debate.

There was no gentleness in it, no suggestion that he might reconsider his position and compromise. His visage was as indomitable as the faces carved into Rushmore. It could intimidate even Delores.

She covered his hand with hers, but he shook off the comforting gesture and barked, “What happened, Goliad?”

Talking to them through the speakerphone, he gave them bullet points, as was Richard’s preference when receiving bad news. He wanted to know the worst aspects of a crisis first. The fine print could be added later.

“She left the sheriff’s department with the same deputy she’d ridden with before. He dropped her at the hospital.”

“The hospital?”

“The ER, sir. My guess is that she went to see about White, the airfield guy. The deputy returned for her a few minutes later. They went to a café. Timmy and me went in, sat fairly close, but not so close that they’d notice. They talked a little, ate breakfast.”

“Talked about what?”

“We weren’t close enough to hear. But they were smiling, friendly.”

He described how the two had parted company. “She went down the hall to the restroom. She didn’t return in a timely fashion. I went to check. Restroom door was open, nobody in there. An exit opened into an alley. I ran to both ends of it. She was nowhere in sight.

“When I rejoined Timmy in the dining room, there was a man asking the waitress had she seen the doctor, said that he was to meet her there with a car. The waitress pointed him toward the back. He was out of sight less than a minute, returned looking steamed. He left in the car he came in.”

“Did you go in search of her?” Delores asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Wasted no time. There’s not much to downtown. We covered every bit of it. Twice. All the businesses are closed. No place for her to go. She was just…gone.”

“How could she have disappeared, in that short span of time, on foot?”

“I can’t explain it, sir.”

No one said anything for a time, then Richard said, “Well? That’s it? ‘We lost her.’”

“I had an idea,” Goliad said.

“Praise be,” Delores said.

Goliad continued. “The last place she was before going to the café was the ER. We went back to check it out. I left Timmy in the car and went inside. Nobody was there except a woman with a bleeding finger wrapped in a dish towel, and the admitting nurse. I told her I was looking for Dr. O’Neal and described her. She said she’d seen her talking to White’s wife. And the pilot.”

Delores and Richard looked at each other. She raised a brow. “That sounds cozy.”

“That’s what I thought,” Goliad said. “So I chatted up this lady some more. Turns out Mrs. White lent the pilot her car so he could drive out to the crash site.”

“Do you think he and Dr. O’Neal rendezvoused outside the café?”

“Didn’t see him. This might be nothing.”

“But it could be something,” Delores insisted.

“Could be. The pilot left the sheriff’s office on foot, but he’s got wheels now. The doctor doesn’t. Only thing is, all we have to go on is that the car he borrowed is ‘blue.’”

“What’s the airfield guy’s first name?” Delores reached for a pad and paper.

“Brady. Brady White.”

She wrote it down. “I’ll get people checking on cars registered to that name. What county?”

Goliad told her.

“It shouldn’t take long,” Delores said. “I’ll text you the license plate as soon as I have it.”

“We’ll start by going to the crash site,” Goliad said. “But, like I said, this might be nothing.”

Richard warned, “I don’t want to hear any more buts, Goliad. Or any other kind of excuse.”

“No, sir.”

“And keep a leash on that Timmy. What the fuck was he doing with a laser?”

“He won’t be using it again, sir. A creek runs through town. The laser’s at the bottom of it.”

“Call us with better news next time.” Delores disconnected, then scooted off the bed, taking the phone with her. “We need that license plate number ASAP. I’ll rouse someone on staff, make up a reason that’ll convey urgency, but not panic.” She was already rapidly punching in a phone number.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Richard chuckled. “I love to see a take-charge woman in action.”

She blew him a kiss. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.” Then, into the phone, “This is Mrs. Hunt. The senator requires some information. Immediately.”

She gave the order with the confidence of someone who knew it would be acted on without delay. She disconnected and instantly began tapping in another number.

“I hope you’re calling Nate Lambert,” Richard said.

“He was awfully cavalier an hour ago,” Delores said. “I have some hard questions for him. Starting with if he knows where the hell his colleague is.”

Chapter 12

9:39 a.m.

Brynn had survived her childhood, which in itself was a miracle. Even more miraculous was that she hadn’t been too badly scarred by it. While other people encountered stumbling blocks in the course of their lives, her impediments had been comparable to mountain ranges.

The first had been the loss of her mother, who succumbed to pancreatic cancer when Brynn was only five years old. Her upbringing then had fallen to her father.

Anyone who had ever met Wes O’Neal liked him. He was described as a “real character,” radiating bonhomie and always ready with a joke. He was good-natured, gregarious, and, in an odd twist, generous. Odd, because he also had a larcenous streak.

During his repeated incarcerations, Brynn was placed in foster homes. Sympathetic teachers and townsfolk also took her under their wings, making certain she had Christmas and birthday gifts, providing clothing when needed, seeing to it that she didn’t miss out on extracurricular activities, simulating as normal a life as possible.

But for all the many kindnesses they extended her, they feared that her personality would be warped. Who could possibly withstand that level of instability without suffering permanent psychological damage? Wes O’Neal’s girl wasn’t expected to amount to much.

Brynn had resolved early on that she would.

The day after graduating high school, she’d left Howardville. Wes had been serving three-to-five in state prison, so he hadn’t been there to see her off. His absence was noted by her but not bemoaned. Long before then, she had accepted that in order to get anywhere, she must go it alone.

She hadn’t enjoyed the typical college experience. From freshman year through med school, she’d been awarded most of the various scholarships and grants for which she had applied, but she’d had to supplement them with part-time jobs. Between studies and work, there hadn’t been much time for a social life.