The Marital Corporation Ch. 14

Synopsis: Doc was shot by an intruder soon after Peter and Marge left Seattle. They returned immediately, and Pete found himself giving a press conference in the hospital. When they returned home, they received a threatening phone call and a mysterious package. Frightened, Marge called Ted Mining for help. Then Pete went to the marina to close "Love Boat II".

Chapter Fourteen

Ted Mining and his lieutenant, Joe, were seated comfortably in the living room when Peter returned from the marina. Marge was just completing a summary of the threatening phone call Peter had received, while Mining idly examined the small unopened package that had been discovered in the mail beneath the drop in the door.

After exchanging somber greetings with their guests, Peter sat on the davenport. "You can see why we had to get together, I don't think it's safe to use the telephone. I hate to be so melodramatic, but what do you make of the package? Do you think it's a bomb?"

Mining nodded thoughtfully. "Possibly. Frankly, I'm more concerned about the phone call than I am the package, Mr. Baylis," he said, head cocked to one side. "It sounds as if you've met Rose," Mining said. "If your phone is tapped, I wonder what they made of her?"

"Rose?" Peter repeated stupidly.

"We don't know her real name," Mining explained, "so we code named her after Tokyo Rose because she's apparently a member of the Priesthood and rarely if ever brings good news. But let's take care of this first," he said, holding the package up. "Is there a swimming pool or fish pond in the backyard?"

Peter looked puzzled. "If you want to soak it before opening it, why not use the kitchen sink?"

Mining briefly smiled. "These people are good at second guessing," he said. "They realize you're unlikely to go to the police with this package because you'd be afraid of the questions they might ask. What's the first thing an amateur does with a questionable package?"

Mining permitted himself another small smile, and cocked his head as he prepared to answer his own question. "He soaks it." Abruptly, Mining's expression hardened. Looking directly at Peter. "Do you remember anything at all from your high school chemistry lab?"

Puzzled, Peter slowly shook his head.

"What happens when you drop a chunk of potassium in water?" Mining asked. Then answering his own question, Mining continued, "I can tell you one thing; if there's potassium in this package, you sure as hell don't want it in your kitchen sink!

"We want to soak this package, but we want to do it outside. If you don't have a fish pond or a pool, a bucket of water will do."

Peter led the way down the basement steps and into the utility room, where he paused long enough to fill a small bucket with water. Joe lifted the bucket from the laundry sink while Peter opened the back door and ushered his guests into the back yard. Joe carried the bucket to a corner of the yard and set it on the lawn.

Mining followed him. "Stand back," he cautioned. "This could be pretty explosive stuff." As he spoke, Mining casually dropped the package into the water.

Nothing happened. Peter started forward, but Mining held out an arm to restrain him. "Don't be impatient. Let's just leave it there for a while. Meanwhile, let's go back inside and you can tell us what else is going on."

After the men were seated again in the Baylis living room, Peter quickly summarized Doc's nearly fatal encounter with his intruder.

"Look, Ted," Peter said, forcing the words out of his suddenly dry throat and willing his voice not to betray his anxiety, "that Rose woman, if that's who she was, was deadly serious. We just have to get that fellow back. Kenny's missing, and for all we know she may be holding him! And even if Kenny's off doing his own thing somewhere else, we're still in the middle on this, and a fire bomb may be the least of our worries. I don't want to spend the next ten years wondering if I'll draw another breath whenever I start my car, or open the mail, or unlock my front door!"

"We'll protect you," Mining said quietly.

"How do you plan to do that?" Peter asked.

Mining shook his head. "We'll find of a way," he said. "Look, Pete, suppose you had a den of rattlesnakes in your back yard. What would you do? Buy all the white mice you could find to keep them full and happy, and hope they'd stay out of your house? Or would you take punitive action and try to get rid of them?"

"What kind of a question is that?"

"Well, as analogies go, that's not very far fetched. As far as we're concerned, Sam is a viper. So is Rose. You just can't make friends with vipers. Luckily, we seem to be dealing with an isolated cell of vipers.

"Remember what I said about the structure the French used during World War II in resisting the Nazi occupation? By keeping the cells isolated from each other and communications flowing only from the top down, the movement was safe from a catastrophic betrayal, even under the most awful torture you could imagine. Individuals might weaken and betray fellow cell members, but the Gestapo was never able to find the movement's leaders or its nerve center.

"That's the situation here. We're dealing with an cell that, considering the general level of paranoia that seems to infect these people, may be even more stringently isolated than their French predecessors were. Obviously, this would be to their serious detriment, because I think it's highly likely that these people have no way of communicating up the chain, except indirectly. One way of doing that is by publishing an innocuous classified ad which covertly asks for a contact. Unfortunately for them, these roundabout methods take time usually, several days."

Mining paused, eyeing Peter with a speculative look, then continued, "So you see, Pete, your situation isn't as serious as you may have thought. All we need do is locate this particular viper's den and extract a few fangs before they can make that contact.

"Meanwhile, please continue your campaign." He paused as if collecting his thoughts, then added, "It would be a pity to go to all this bother only to see you defeated in the primary election next month. We have high hopes for your family corporation."

Mining then said, "I think that package has soaked long enough. Let's see what's in it. Do you have a light out on the patio?"

Peter nodded, so Mining continued, "Good. I'll need a very sharp knife, safety goggles if you have them, and a pair of forceps or needle nose pliers. Also, a portable vise or pair of `visegrip' pliers."

Again, the men descended the stairs. While Peter rummaged in his little workroom for the equipment Mining had requested, the other men retrieved the bucket and its contents. Peter carried the tools out to the patio table and snapped on the outdoors light.

Mining pulled the goggles over his head and adjusted them on the bridge of his nose. He looked like a bizarre hornet as he turned to Peter and Joe. "I think this is perfectly safe, but why take chances? I wish you two would step back into the house, just in case . . "

Peter and Joe obediently retreated into the basement and stood silently behind the masonry wall while Mining delicately opened the mysterious package.

"Jesus Christ!! Come here, Peter, Joe!"

Peter and Joe rushed out to the table.

"Do you recognize this, Peter?"

Peter felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him! Un believingly, he stared at a bloody lump of human tissue. Fighting nausea in the back of his throat, he looked more closely, and realized he was staring at a little finger that had been severed between the knuckle and first joint. Suddenly, he felt the blood drain from his face as he recognized the finger! It was Kenny's! He even remem bered with crystal clarity Kenny's explaining how his finger had acquired that distinctive shape. Something to do with a 4th of July fire cracker.

"It's Kenny's," Peter said in a coarse whisper as he steadied himself against the table.

"Well, we'd better put this in the refrigerator," Mining said, as he picked the little package up. He led the way back into the house.

Marge jumped to her feet when she saw Peter come though the doorway. "What's the matter, dear?"

"I need a stiff drink," Peter said. "Will you see what these fellows'll have? I need to sit down."

Mining followed Marge into the kitchen. Peter knew he had told her about the package's contents when he heard her loudly exclaim "Oh, my God!!"

Later, as the four sat in the living room, Mining said, "I must say, this really throws a monkey wrench into things! You folks would have been perfectly safe as long as Sam was kept out of circulation because while Rose might make a fuss, she wouldn't dare take punitive action. Normally, she'd be worried sick about what Sam may have told us." He paused and shook his head sadly, "But now, I don't know what to suggest."

That wasn't the response Peter expected. He had assumed that Mining would release Sam as soon as he knew Rose had captured Kenny, so the immediate significance of Mining's remark escaped him at first.

"It seems obvious," Peter said. "Turn Sam loose."

Mining's odd little characteristic became even more pronounced. He permitted himself a fleeting smile, and said, "Speaking hypotheti- cally of course, since I'm not even sure I know what you're talking about, we can't release a person we don't have."

"DON'T HAVE?"

"Some friends recently drove up from Portland. They decided to take our visitor back to Portland with them. It seems there were one or two little problems they thought our visitor might clear up for them."

Peter's lawyer's mind reeled as he automatically began to assess the awful legal liabilities they now faced. But compared to Kenny's well being, the criminal liabilities, even including kidnapping and obstructing justice, his original concern, now seemed little more than a minor indiscretions. Mining had to understand that Kenny was worth a dozen Sams, and somehow they needed to make the trade.

"I'll see what I can do," was all that Peter could extract from Mining as he pleaded for Kenny's rescue.

Then Mining stood and extended his hand to Peter. "Believe me, Pete, when I say we'll do all we can to rescue Kenny. In the meanwhile," here he permitted himself another small smile, "It was a wonderful stroke of luck for us when you decided to go into politics, and for what it's worth, I know you'll be glad to learn that you've made Republicans of us all!"

With that, the two men courteously bid Peter and Marge good night.

Peter followed them to the door and nervously checked to make sure the shades were drawn and the doors bolted. Then Peter and Marge settled down in the living room seeking what comfort they could find in each other's strength and sympathy.

Next morning, the world seemed a different place. Sunshine was streaming into the kitchen through the newly repaired window. At breakfast, Peter repeated Anne's startling news that the Schaefers were separating. Marge was as surprised as Peter had been, especially when Peter repeated Anne's speculation concerning the source of Gordon's unrest.

Both doubted the validity of Anne's observation. "Once I got him going," Marge offered, "he was as horny as any man I ever screwed. It seems strange we haven't heard from him. Surely he must know we're back from San Juan by now."

Peter decided to say nothing of Gordon's sexual overtures to him, but merely nodded and said, "Well, something's going on in Anne's head, but I'm sure I don't have a clue what it is." Then he added, "I forgot to tell you; I tried to call him at the office yesterday, but things have been happening so fast since that I simply forgot to call him at home."

The phone rang, interrupting further speculation. Remembering Rose's call the previous evening, Marge and Peter exchanged uneasy glances. Then Marge picked it up, spoke briefly, and, with an expression of distaste, handed the receiver to Peter. "It's your little friend from the Associated Press."

He accepted the receiver. "Good morning Ms. Baker," he said.

"Good morning, Mr. Baylis. I'm glad I caught you before you left for the office. My editor is interested in your environmental background, and wants me to do a feature story on you. Assuming you're agreeable, and I can't imagine a politician saying no, I wonder when would be a convenient time for us to get together?"

"That's all ancient history," Peter said.

"I know," she replied, "but you see, he covered your fight with Pan-Pacific as a cub reporter, and he thinks there's a real story in your new crusade."

"I appreciate your interest. There's no doubt I can use all the help I can get," Peter said. "How do you want to approach this?"

"Why don't you just let me follow you around for a day or so? We could meet in your office, or I could come out to your home if you're not going to the office today."

Peter paused. He didn't want her coming to Queen Anne. He knew intuitively that any story based on an interview in that house would be about the house and its spectacular view rather than about his candidacy and the family corporation. His office, on the other hand, was too new, too sterile to provide an appropriate backdrop. Besides, he wanted voters to see him as a dynamic man of action; not as just another suit and briefcase.

"I tell you what," Peter said, "we came back yesterday from a cruise in the San Juans because of the attack on Doc Porter. I've got to secure the boat. Why don't we meet at Shilshole? You'll have my undivided attention, and if you're into boating, you'll get a chance to see a real classic; a Murray Peterson coasting schooner."

"I don't know very much about boats," she replied, "but that seems like a good place to start. What time will you be there?"

Peter told her, and gave her Love Boat II's dock and slip designations. "Just look for the prettiest boat in the marina," he added.

Immediately after they hung up, the phone rang again.

It was Anne. She asked for Marge. Peter handed the receiver across the table to his wife, and scribbled a note on the telephone pad, Remember the phone tap . . . Don't repeat what I told you about Gordon . . . let me talk to her when you're through. Marge nodded, and continued her conversation in a light bantering tone. Peter flinched when he heard the name `Gene' mentioned several times. If someone was tapping their telephone, that someone was getting an earful!

Peter waited patiently for his turn. Finally, he heard her say, "Hold on, Anne, I think Pete wants to ask you something . . . OK, 'bye." She handed the receiver back across the table.

"Anne, is Gordon there by any chance?"

"No," she said in a low, throaty voice, "he's at the office. I'm lying here all alone in bed running my hand over my boobs and thinking about the last time we were together really together at the Ambassador.

"My little nips are getting so hard. Wouldn't you like to bite one? I'm getting all wet, just thinking about it. Please say yes, you'll come."

That woman could raise an erection on a statue! Peter felt a familiar tingle in his scrotum, and regretfully remembered his appointment with Ms. Baker. "I'd love to," he said, avoiding Marge's knowing smirk, "but I have to close up the boat. We left her in a big hurry, as you can imagine. Perhaps I could call you later?"

"Later will be too late," she said. "Much too late."

"What about tomorrow?" Peter asked hopefully.

"We'll see," she said curtly. She hung up.

Peter took a quick shower, shaved, and without thinking, pulled on a pair of paint-stained slacks and a scruffy pullover shirt. Then he shoved his feet into boat slippers. He presented himself to Marge in the kitchen.

"Is this the image I want to present?" Peter asked.

"I don't know what image you want to present," she countered. "If you want to look like a boat bum, you've got it. On the other hand, if you want to look like a `Republican candidate cleaning up his boat', I'd suggest you put on that new polo shirt I gave you for Christmas. And by all means, put some socks on and make sure they match. Also, put on a pair of boat shoes with laces and a less colorful pair of pants."

As usual, she was right. Peter dutifully trudged back upstairs and changed clothes. Then he returned to the kitchen and kissed Marge goodbye. "Don't be too late," she said.

Peter drove the Camry to the marina, stopping only at a neighborhood Safeway for six-packs of cokes and beer, and some luncheon meat.

The AP reporter, Ms. Baker, was waiting for him when he arrived. She was watching the parking lot and saw him get out of the car. "Hi, Mr. Baylis," she called, waving her arm.

Peter waved back and lifted the grocery sack from the rear seat. Resting it on a fender, he locked the car and turned to greet her. Yesterday he had seen a slender, reasonably attractive young woman in a business suit, but his attention had been focused primarily on the yellow pad in her lap.

Today he saw an attractive blonde dressed in a colorful T-shirt, jeans, and soft soled boat moccasins, carrying a camera bag slung over her shoulder. Peter admired the curve of her bosom as he read the legend on her shirt "Trust me; I work for the Government!" and smiled. Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad, after all. At least she has a sense of humor. "Good morning, Ms. Taylor," Peter said.

"Please call me Mar, or if you insist on formality, Mary. But not Ms. Taylor. That makes me feel 50 years old." She gave a mock shudder, then evidently remembering that she was not addressing a contemporary, her cheeks flushed, and she stammered, "Oh, I didn't mean . . . I hope you don't think . . ."

Peter smiled. "That's all right, Mar, I understand."

She smiled her relief. "Mind if I snap a picture?"

Peter struck a pose, but she said, "No, just pick up the sack. I think I told you, Jack wants a human interest angle, and there's nothing more human than a man lugging the groceries."

He did as he was told, and she skipped ahead, snapping half a dozen shots from different angles. She said, "These are great; he'll love this one; turn your head to the right; great!"

Then she put the camera away, and showed Peter a miniature tape recorder. "This is voice activated. See, it's running while I'm talking to you. Do you mind if I tape our entire conversation?"

He was immediately self-conscious and guarded. She seemed to be reading his mind. "Look, Pete do you mind if I call you Pete? this is partly for our mutual self-protection; that is, if I misquote you, you can challenge me to find that statement in context on the tape, and vice versa, of course.

"More importantly, having a verbatim record of our conversation aids me in developing an accurate, three dimensional portrait. I should think you would want the voters to have a clear understanding of your philosophy, ideals, and goals. This is the best way to give it to them."

Peter slowly nodded. "I guess that makes sense, Mar. I'll just have to learn to ignore it."

She smiled. "I promise, you'll forget all about it in five minutes, tops."

Peter led the way to Love Boat II's slip near the end of Pier J. Since the yacht was so underpowered, and therefore hard to handle in narrow and constricted passageways, Peter had tried to get a berth on the face of a pier closer to the entrance, but he was on a long waiting list. This was even more serious because the sturdy little schooner was surrounded by delicate and expensive yachts of all descriptions.

Since it was a weekday, the marina was virtually deserted. Peter and Mar were the only people on their pier as they trudged past hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of molded fiberglass, varnished wood, stainless steel fittings, and aluminum spars. Like race horses waiting for the gate to open, the boats were restlessly shifting about in their respective slips under the influence of a heavy backswell curling around the end of the massive stone breakwater. Peter wondered where the surge was coming from. The wind was northwesterly, but seemingly not over 15, perhaps 18 knots.