“Your boss. Mike Jackson, right? He says you’re supposed to come down to Washington. They’ve moved Willis to Walter Reed Army Hospital, but he’s refusing to talk unless you’re there.”
“That’s all I needed.”
“Do you think he’ll make it?” Kate questioned.
“I don’t know. A mortal wouldn’t have survived that fall, but Bud Willis isn’t quite human. I’ll go.”
“You’ll be back for the wedding? I need a maid of honor.”
“I’ll be back,” Maggie said. “What about Sybil?”
“She’s off with some new suitor. All she’ll tell me is he’s Irish and very mysterious. She keeps muttering something about terrorists and looking tragic.”
“Typical Sybil. He’s probably a beer-guzzling soccer player.”
Kate laughed. “Probably. Will Randall give you a ride to the airport?” It was a delicate probe, and Maggie didn’t mind answering.
“Randall’s gone.”
“He’ll be back?”
“So he says,” Maggie replied. “So he says.” And she didn’t know whether that was a threat or a promise.
* * *
Washington was hot and sultry in the late August heat. Even at eight o’clock at night, National Airport was blanketed in blasts of thermal air. Maggie shook back her thick hair and considered chopping it all off.
Mike Jackson, head of Third World Causes and nominally her boss, was waiting for her. His affable face with its barracuda eyes was a welcome sight. “You pick a helluva way to spend your vacations, Maggie.” He peered at her closely. “You look exhausted.”
“I am.” She hugged him.
“You also look better than I’ve seen you in two years,” he said bluntly. “You finally let go of Pulaski?”
“No one ever said you weren’t observant,” Maggie said wryly. “Is Willis going to make it?”
“Who knows? He’s a mess, but it’s the good who die young.”
“He killed Pulaski, Mike.”
“Yes.”
“You knew?” She stared at him in astonishment.
“I guessed.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What good would it have done? I had no proof, just a gut-level feeling, and you were hurting enough as it was. I figured it would come out in its own good time. Did he tell you?”
“Bragged to me. Told me he did it for the hell of it.”
Jackson scratched his balding head. “That doesn’t sound like Willis. He usually doesn’t do anything unless there’s a bottom line.”
“I won’t even begin to guess what his motives are. I can’t imagine why he wants to see me. Maybe to ask my forgiveness?”
“Maybe pigs can fly,” Jackson said. “I promised I’d bring you straight to the hospital. He’s at Walter Reed, you know. You got any energy left?”