Eleventh Hour

back to where Albia stood, looking unruffled and elegant, still holding that derringer. “My goodness, Nicola, you are a bad girl, now aren’t you? You’ve been trying very hard to muck things up and I really can’t allow any more, now can I?”
    The man eased his hold on her arms. He turned her slowly to face him. He was older, his face seamed from years in the sun. He pushed her face up, his fist beneath her chin. “You’re very pretty. I always thought so, but not so smart, even with all those diplomas you have. But you know what, love? You were lucky, very lucky. I’ve always believed that luck ranked right up there with brains.”
    Nick stared up at him. “You’re the man who tried to kill me.”
    “Well, yes, I did, and it was quite a blow when I didn’t get you. Albia was very upset with me.”
    “Of course I was upset. You know, Nicola, you had more than your share of luck,” Albia said. “Poor little Cleo, she didn’t have even a lick of luck. Just as well that Dwight here sent her to her great reward. She was looking quite old there at the end. John told me that he used to love to touch her, her skin was so soft, but there, toward the end, he thought she was getting old, her skin becoming coarse.”
    “I thought she felt pretty nice,” Dwight said.
    Albia laughed. “John is very choosy. He told me he loved touching Nicola, that her skin was so very soft. He prayed that she wouldn’t become coarse for a long time.”
    Nick jerked, felt Dwight’s hand tighten around her arm. “Don’t think about yelling, love, this area is soundproof, the senator’s office as well. No one can hear a thing.”
    Nick whispered, “It was you, Albia, all along it was you.”
    “Yes, dear. You want to know something? You’re nothing, Nicola, nothing at all. Dwight will make sure that no hunter’s dog finds you. You’ve caused me a lot of trouble, but this will be the end of it. Yes indeed, it’s so fortunate that Dwight was waiting for you to open the panel. I thought you’d come right on in, but you didn’t. Still, it didn’t matter. Now, that’s what I call luck—for me.”
    Nick knew what fear tasted like, but this was more. This numbed her brain, made her shake. She didn’t want to die.
    There was nothing close to her, no weapon, nothing. If only she had Dane’s SIG Sauer again. But Dwight was here, ready to grab her again if she even twitched.
    She didn’t think, she just screamed and screamed again as she shoved her fist into Dwight’s belly and tried to pull free.
    “That’s quite enough,” Albia said, and brought the butt of the derringer hard on the back of her head. Nick didn’t see points of light, just instant, nauseating black. She sank to the floor.

THIRTY-EIGHT
    “When did you say the senator would be back, Mrs. Mazer?”
    “He should have been here by now, Agent Sherlock. I wonder if he came in through his private entrance?”
    Sherlock went en pointe. “What private entrance?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She was around Mrs. Mazer’s desk in an instant, her hand on the doorknob, turning it, but nothing happened. It was locked.
    “It locks automatically when it’s closed from the inside,” Mrs. Mazer said, rising, alarmed now. “Some years ago a reporter forced his way in, so the senator decided to make the lock automatic. What’s wrong, Agent Sherlock? Oh dear, is it about Dr. Campion?”
    Sherlock knocked on the door, yelling Nick’s name.
    “Here, Agent.”
    Sherlock ground the key into the lock, twisted it, and the door opened silently.
    The office was empty. “Where’s the private entrance? Quickly, Mrs. Mazer.”
    “In the back wall.”
    Sherlock pulled her SIG Sauer out in a flash, even as she yelled over her shoulder to Mrs. Mazer, “Call the police. Tell them your Senator Rothman has taken Dr. Campion. Hurry!”
    It took Sherlock a moment to find the small button, built in nearly flat against the wall. She pressed, and the door silently eased back. She stepped into a dimly lit passage that was oak paneled, the floor carpeted with two small Turkish rugs. She paused, listening. She thought she heard something, movement, a man’s breathing.
    She went forward slowly in the darkness. The corridor turned once, then ended. The whole thing wasn’t more than six feet long. She was facing a narrow elevator, its silver door barely visible in the dim light.
    She heard the low hum of the elevator motor. He was taking Nick down. But Sherlock didn’t know