The Brethren

Lake left the building and quickly ducked inside the cab. The video stopped; the lights became brighter.

Deville resumed his narrative. "We’re confident we found the right papers in the trash can. We were there within seconds, and no one else entered the premises while we waited. The time was twelve fifty-eight. An hour later, we entered again and keyed the lock to Box 455, so we’ll have access anytime we need it."

"Check it every day," Teddy said. "Inventory every piece of mail. Leave the junk, but when something arrives I want to know it."

"You got it. Mr. Lake reentered the basement window at one twenty-two and stayed at home for the rest of the night. He’s there now"

"That’s all,"Teddy said, and Deville left the room.

A minute passed as Teddy stirred his coffee. "How many addresses does he have?"

York knew the question was coming. He glanced at some notes. "He gets most of his personal mail at his home in Georgetown. He has at least two addresses on Capitol Hill, one at his office, the other at the Armed Services Committee. He has three offices back home in Arizona. That’s six that we know about."

"Why would he need a seventh?"

"I don’t know the reason, but it can’t be good. A man who has nothing to hide does not use an alias or a secret address."

"When did he rent the box?"

"We’re still working on that."

"Maybe he rented the box after he decided to enter the race. He’s got the CIA doing his thinking for him, so maybe he figures we’re watching everything too. And he figures he might need a little privacy, thus the box. Maybe it’s a girlfriend we missed somehow. Maybe he likes dirty magazines or videos, something that is shipped through the mail."

After a long pause,York said, "Could be. What if the box was rented months ago, long before he entered the race?"

"Then he’s not hiding from us. He’s hiding from the world, and his secret is truly dreadful."

They silently contemplated the dreadfulness of Lake’s secret, neither wanting to venture a guess. They decided to step up surveillance even more, and to check the mailbox twice a day. Lake would be leaving town in a matter of hours, off to do battle in other primaries, and they would have the box to themselves.

Unless someone else was also checking it for him.

Aaron Lake was the man of the hour in Washington. From his office on Capitol Hill he graciously granted live interviews to the early morning news programs. He received senators and other members of Congress, friends and former enemies alike, all bearing tidings of great joy and congratulations. He had lunch with his campaign staff, and followed it with long meetings. on strategy. After a quick dinner with Elaine Tyner, who brought wonderful news of tons of new cash over at D-PAC, he left the city and flew to Syracuse to make plans for the NewYork primary.

A large crowd welcomed him. He was, after all, now the front-runner.

Chapter Fourteen

The hangovers were becoming more frequent, and as Trevor opened his eyes for another day he told himself that he simply had to get a grip. You can’t lay out at Pete’s every night, drinking cheap longnecks with coeds, watching meaningless basketball games just because you’ve got a thousand bucks on them. Last night it had been Logan State and somebody, some team with green uniforms. Who the hell cared about Logan State?

Joe Roy Spicer, that’s who. Spicer put $500 on them, Trevor backed it up with a thousand of his own, and Logan won it for them. In the past week, Spicer had picked ten out of twelve winners. He was up $3,000 in real cash, and Trevor, happily following along, was up $5,500 for himself. His gambling was proving to be much more profitable than his lawyering. And someone else was picking the winners!

He went to the bathroom and splashed water on his face without looking at the mirror. The toilet was still clogged from the day before, and as he stomped around his dirty little house looking for a plunger the phone rang. It was a wife from a previous life, a woman he loathed and one who loathed him, and when he heard her voice he knew she needed money. He said no angrily and got in the shower.

Things were worse at the office. A divorcing couple had arrived in separate cars to finish the negotiations for their property settlement. The assets they were fighting over were of no consequence to anyone else-pots, pans, a toaster-but since they had nothing, they had to fight over something. The fights are nastiest when the stakes are smallest.

Their lawyer was an hour late, anal they had used the time to simmer and boil until finally Jan had separated them. The wife was parked in Trevor’s office when he stumbled in from the back door.

"Where the hell you been?" she demanded loud enough for husband to hear up front. Husband charged down the hall, past Jan, who did not give chase, and burst into Trevor’s small office.

"We’ve been waiting for an hour!" he announced.

"Shut up, both of you!" Trevor screamed, and Jan left the building. His clients were stunned at the volume.

"Sit down!" he screamed again, and they fell into the only empty chairs. "You people pay five hundred bucks for a lousy divorce and you think you own the place!"

They looked at his red eyes and red face and decided this was not a man to mess with. The phone started ringing and no one answered it. Nausea hit again, and Trevor bolted out of his office and across the hall to the bathroom, where he puked, as quietly as possible. The toilet failed to flush, the little metal chain clinking harmlessly inside the tank.

The phone was still ringing. He staggered down the hall to fire Jan, and when he couldn’t find her he left the building too. He walked to the beach, took off his shoes and socks, and splashed his feet in the cool salt water.

Two hours later, Trevor sat motionless at his desk, door locked to keep out clients, bare feet on the desk, with sand still wedged between the toes. He needed a nap and he needed a drink, and he stared at the ceiling trying to organize his priorities. The phone rang, this time duly answered by Jan, who was still employed but secretly checking want ads.

It was Brayshears, in the Bahamas. "We have a wire, sir," he said.

Trevor was instantly on his feet. "How much?"

"A hundred thousand, sir."

Trevor glanced at his watch. He had about an hour to catch a flight. "Can you see me at three-thirty?" he asked.

"Certainly, sir."

He hung up and yelled toward the front, "Cancel my appointments for today and tomorrow. I’m leaving."

"You don’t have any appointments," Jan yelled back. "You’re losing money faster than ever."

He wouldn’t bicker. He slammed the back door and drove away.

The flight to Nassau stopped first in Fort Lauderdale, though Trevor hardly knew it. After two quick beers he was sound asleep.Two more over the Atlantic, and a flight attendant had to wake him when the plane was empty.

The wire was from Curtis in Dallas, as expected. It was remitted by a Texas bank, payable to Boomer Realty, care of Geneva Trust Bank, Nassau. Trevor raked his one third off the top, again hiding $25,000 in his own secret account, and taking $8,000 in cash. He thanked Mr. Brayshears, said he hoped to see him soon, and staggered out of the building.

The thought of going home had not crossed his mind. He headed for the shopping district, where packs of heavy American tourists choked the sidewalks. He needed shorts and a straw hat and a bottle of sunscreen.

Trevor eventually made it to the beach, where he found a room in a nice hotel, $200 a night but what did he care? He lathered himself in oil and stretched out by the pool, close enough to the bar. A waitress in a thong fetched him drinks.