Tail Spin

shoved his way through and looked down to see Greg Nichols lying on his side on the floor, blood trickling from his open mouth. There was blood everywhere. He was soaked with it. Sherlock was on her knees beside him.
    “The EMTs should be here soon. He’s very bad, Dillon. All this blood. I knew something was wrong with him, I knew it.”
    “We thought he was up to no good,” a Secret Service agent said, straightening over Nichols. “But no, this guy’s very sick.”
    “I’m guessing poison,” Savich said. “He’s drenched in blood. What else would it be?”
    A Secret Service agent said, “Yeah, you’re right, sounds like coumarin, rat poison.”
    “Yeah, probably,” Savich said, and felt for Nichols’s pulse.
    Sherlock rose to look at Lindsay Culley, Nichols’s secretary.
    She was wringing her hands, her face as white as Savich’s shirt. “I told him not to eat the cioppino, because there’d be a big meal tonight, but he did, only a few bites. It must have been bad. Really, he didn’t eat all that much. I thought he was better, he kept saying he was fine.”
    She burst into tears. Sherlock patted her shoulder and nodded to Grace Garvey, Senator Abbott’s former secretary, who told her, “I didn’t know he was ill. We spoke about tonight, and I told him how nice it would be, how pleased we all were they were doing this for Senator Abbott. He and Senator Abbott were so very close.” She put her arms around Lindsay.
    Savich said, “His pulse is thready, nearly nonexistent.” He sat back on his heels. “I don’t think he’s going to make it.”
    A Secret Service agent opened the doors and paramedics rushed in carrying medical bags and a gurney. Savich listened to Sherlock tell them his symptoms as they worked over him. He heard an older man say abruptly, “Would you look at all that blood!”
    They had him on the gurney quickly, white cloths draped over all the bloody clothes.
    Two FBI agents accompanied the group. “Keep me informed,” Savich said, then turned back, saw the vice president looking over the heads of the crowd at him, and nodded.
    Another three minutes and all the senators had turned to face Rachael once again at the podium.
    The vice president nodded to Rachael. “As you all know by now, ladies and gentlemen, someone has fallen ill. I’m told it was Greg Nichols, the former senior staffer for Senator Abbott. He is being seen to, and we certainly hope he will be all right. Ms. Abbott, after all this excitement, do you feel like continuing?”
    She nodded, stepped again to the podium, adjusted the microphone. Greg, what happened?

FIFTY-FOUR
    She looked out over the group, met Laurel’s cold, malicious eyes, and nearly recoiled. Then Laurel smirked, no other way to describe that small, self-satisfied smile. Her father’s sister—how could that be possible?
    She looked around at the group, cleared her throat, and said, “I’m very sorry my father’s chief of staff, Greg Nichols, has taken ill. I hope he will be all right. I will keep this brief.
    “My father loved our nation’s capital, and it disturbed him that alongside the beautiful granite buildings, the stretches of perfectly maintained parklands, just beside the towering monuments, there is squalor and poverty, their roots dug deep for more years than anyone can remember. It both angered and embarrassed him.
    “Therefore, in his honor, I will be creating and endowing the John James Abbott Foundation, which will address first and foremost our local citizens’ problems. You are our nation’s lawmakers, our movers and shakers. I would appreciate any and all expertise you can throw my way. Together, we can make a difference in his name, I’m sure we can.”
    She picked up her glass of water, raised it high. “I would like to toast Senator John James Abbott, a compassionate man, and an excellent father.” She raised her glass, and the rest of the room quickly followed suit. “To making a difference!”
    There was a moment of silence while people drank, then, slowly, the members of the Senate stood, clapping, their eyes on her, nodding.
    When she returned to the table, Jack said, “I didn’t know what you were going to say, but a foundation—that’s an excellent idea, Rachael.”
    She took his hand and said, in a low voice, “I couldn’t do it. I thought hard about it, Jack. I argued with myself, taking one side, then the other. I finally decided you were right. What my father would or would not have