Grayfield

By Robert Howerter

1st in the series. In an era of rising government entitlements, the executive branch takes a bold, sinister and secret move to develop a biological compound. A handful of top government executives plot to convert America's gene pool from one of normal genes to defective ones that would generate disease and eventual death. The gene pool would ultimately be passed to future generations who would fall victim to the ticking time bomb that creates disease, and that would kill them before their time.
That goal, if reached, would reduce or completely eliminate entitlements being paid, since few would ever reach retirement age. However, several people find evidence of the conspiracy, and develop a plan to stop Grayfield Institute from carrying out their diabolical plan. An unlikely team is formed: an attorney who is also a covert CIA agent, a research assistant at Grayfield, a biologist, and two FBI agents. It soon becomes clear that the sinister government entity is not going to allow anyone who knows about the plan outside of their small circle to survive.
Twists and turns in the story provide an adventure filled novel, softened by the sensitive love that members of the team experience. During the numerous confrontations the book offers, the evil organization strikes back, almost destroying the team, and providing the reader with many thrill packed pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Howerter
• Release date: Jun 7, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458032768

Robert Howerter

After being a combat photographer during the Belgium Congo revolution and the Algerian war with France in the US military, Robert Howerter graduated from Kent State University in 1968 with a degree in English. However, he spent almost his entire life working in computer software design and implementation, and in executive management of several large companies. He often spoke to technology leaders by giving speeches in numerous countries, travelling to 45 of them. Upon retirement as a Director, Price Waterhouse World Firm, he decided to put his writing skills to work, penning numerous newspaper articles on gardening. He has written four novels in a series, Grayfield, The Normandy Appointment, The Marquis' Inheritance, and Emily's Mark, as well as his newest, The Crown Project,. Much of what he learned about France was in Normandy where he lived, and in Paris, the city he loves. Currently, he resides with his wife in the Tampa Bay area.

Book preview

Grayfield

Robert Howerter

Published by Robert Howerter

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not claim responsibility for author or third-part websites or their content.

Copyright 2011 Robert Howerter

Smashwords Edition

License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1

The cloak of darkness helped Jake hide in the evening shadows as he stood outside the senator's home in Georgetown. Night had fallen hours before, but the traipsing of humans and cars continued in the nighttime streets. Reaching his hand in his pocket, he felt the coldness of the Beretta as his fingers moved over the hard steel. He pulled the gun from his pocket, and checked that it was functional and was ready to fire. It was. One shot would do.

Even though the air was cool, beads of perspiration stood on the palms of his hands. Jake unzipped his jacket partially, since he felt warm. He listened. The only sounds were the automobiles in the street and an occasional barking dog. It seemed like the typical quiet neighborhood, as he had hoped. Jake always felt small standing outside, but once the task was completed his sense of self grew as he moved away from the scene, feeling accomplishment, but always sadness.

He made his way around the outside of the house, keeping his back pushed against the brick wall. He glanced around frequently to observe his surroundings. Inside, there was a glow of light that filtered through the windows and pierced the darkness beyond. However, there were no lights on the outside of the building, which surprised Jake. Most men of power took their security seriously and blanketed the outside with sensor driven lights. It was an obvious blunder, but common for one who was preoccupied with his ego-driven profession, and aging in his body and mind.

Senator Alvin Chatham, senior member from Missouri, and Chairman of the Appropriations Committee, had only a few years before retirement. Many associates and enemies in Washington had urged him to retire earlier, but he always told them, I haven't irritated you enough. The man had spent his life trying to balance the nation's budget, much to the dismay of many of his constituents who requested bridges to nowhere and roads to somewhere. He was intrigued by the rumors of Grayfield; based on the old joke about his state, he had to be convinced. Show me---everything---up front and real.

Chatham sat at his desk, lost in his thoughts and the confrontation of the day. He looked at his watch. 10:15 p.m. He had heard the rumors, but dismissed them. It couldn't have been, so he put it out of his mind. The thought of the government trying to alter the genes of Americans to prevent them from ever claiming their entitlements was ludicrous. Obviously, the advantages to the government would be immense, but what of the people, the voters? Maybe there would be a reduction of taxes since costs would be reduced, but the Senator knew instinctively that Congress would raise taxes by a different method, and spend whatever came in. It was in their genes. That couldn't be altered.

****

Earlier in the day, Chatham had sauntered into the Grayfield building, seeing the busy offices of many people as he headed for Drake's office, the director of the institute. He occasionally stopped to greet some of them, even though many hadn't a clue as to who he was.

They had never met, but Drake's reputation in the Senate chamber was known, and it was mostly negative. The Senator didn't want to alert the institute of his intention for the meeting, so he didn't schedule an advanced appointment. The old man was nearing eighty, and throughout his career he was known for his veracity, generally being liked by his voters, but feared by his enemies.

The meeting was vividly clear in his mind, and he still felt anger as he remembered the meeting.

Bypassing Drake's secretary, Chattam barged into his office without announcing, and pushed the door open, allowing it to bang into the wall.

"What the hell? Who are you?" Drake exclaimed, sitting at his desk.

"I’m Senator Chatham. We haven't met and I thought this day would be appropriate.

Drake was taken off guard as he saw the heavy-set man with a large cigar in his mouth standing in front of his desk.

"I have no time today. Make an appointment with my secretary, and I would be glad to meet with you in the future," Drake said, looking peeved from the interruption.

"My dear man, I didn't come all the way from the Senate chamber to be rebuffed like a young fool. My age and experience of eighty years gives me some priority in life. If we can’t talk here right now, I'll subpoena you and you can make the trip to me. Which will it be?"

Drake set the papers he was holding back on his desk.

"All right, what's so damn important?"

Just then, the door opened and Belle, his secretary, said he was urgently needed next door, but it would only take a few minutes.

"Senator, we are in the middle of serious testing on a new compound. I need to step into the next office for a few minutes. Please make yourself comfortable."

It was obvious based on the look on the senator's face that he was not pleased. He had already been sitting too much, so he paced the office, first looking out the window to the garden, and then returned to the middle of the room. Chatham glanced at Drake's desk and walked over to it. Looking quickly over the top, he spotted a paper with the title, Reverse Gene Therapy for the Executive Branch.

My God. What the hell is that?

Chatham glanced at the door to see that it was closed, and quickly picked up the paper and began to read.

Based on the burgeoning entitlement program of the US government, it has been determined by the executive branch that all possible means must be enacted to either reduce or eliminate providing these funds. Since the Congress seems to be numb from acting accordingly, and their seems little chance that the entitlements will be reduced by legislation, another approach is being tried.

Grayfield Institute has been established to provide this alternative. Americans will have some of their---.

Chatham was so surprised and engrossed in the words he was reading that he didn't notice Drake slip back into the room.

"What the hell? Put that down. You have no right."

"Sorry, but this is exactly why I’m here. I heard the rumors, but never imagined that it was true."

"I suggest you forget what you saw. It’s classified government information, and can’t be used, not even by you."

"Did you ever hear of closed hearings? That’s exactly what we will do---next week at the latest," Chatham announced.

"Get your fat ass the hell out of my office, and never come back. I don't like sneaky bastards, especially sneaky senators who are bastards."

Chatham glared at Drake as he threw the document onto the desk, his eyes slightly bulging with anger.

"The next time you see me, you'll be in my office, guaranteed," Chatham exclaimed as he left the room again banging the door against the wall.

Puffing on a large cigar, Chatham sat at the desk of his home office, remembered the door banging twice, and smiled to himself. What he didn't know were the events that took place after leaving Drake's office.

****

Dr. Drake felt a panicky feeling race through his body. He knew exactly the document that Chatham was holding as soon as he came through the door. He remembered pulling it out of the safe and laying it on the corner of his desk prior to leaving. It was a bad mistake.

Drake buzzed his secretary, and told her to get Dodson on the line. Robert Dodson was the one on the President's staff who seemed to always take care of problems when they arose. He was a kind of a Jack-of-all-trades, but he used devious tools.

Dodson, we have a problem.

What now?

Chatham was just here.

Senator Chatham?

Yes, and he knows about our project, and he plans to hold Senate hearings.

I hope you're not talking about the gene therapy program about to start clinical trials, are you?

I'm afraid so.

Shit. How did that happen?

He found a paper that I left out, by accident, Drake explained.

You know we can't let this get out. The President would be impeached, and the country would be in chaos.

Drake didn't know what to say, so he remained quiet.

I'll take care of it, Dodson said as he disconnected the line.

****

Chatham took the cigar from his mouth, leaned back in his plush chair, and closed his eyes. He reflected on the problem.

There was always something about Grayfield, but I couldn't put my finger on it. They always seemed arrogant, even under testimony. Damn. I would have never guessed that McMaster could have architected this by himself. He will be impeached for this. Maybe the Congress should have acted sooner and revised entitlements. No---too many conflicting politics---they would never do it.

The room was completely quiet except for the noise made by a single click of the lock on the door. Chatham heard it, opened his eyes, and looked across the dim interior. The office was dense with the acrid cigar smoke, and the glare of the desk lamp made it difficult to focus on details. When Chatham saw the shadowy figure slip through the door, he stood and set his cigar in the ashtray.

Who is it?

There was no answer at first, but as the figure came closer to his desk, he spoke.

It's time to retire, senator. Your usefulness has come to an end, and some people consider you dangerous.

As the smoke started to clear, Chatham could now see the man standing in front of him: medium height, dressed in dark clothing, a black stocking cap, and holding a Beretta pointed at him.

Who sent you?

It's not important. The good doctor couldn't make office visits, so he sent me to the patient. Prognosis: the patient is dying.

Chatham pursed his lips. Drake. He sent you.

Without warning, Jake quickly raised the gun and fired. Chatham arched backward toward the wall, and then slumped to the floor, dead. Jake nonchalantly placed the gun back in his pocket, turned and retraced his steps to the door. Stopping briefly, he wiped the knobs with his handkerchief, removing all trace of any of his residue, even though he always wore gloves. It was one of his precautions.

The old gray fox from another era lie dead on the floor, allowing a young fox to go on with his work, unimpeded and unimpeachable.

Chapter 2

Plans were under way to continue the activities that had been going on since the 1990's. The organization had been placing their own members in positions of power to advance their interests. It was not always an easy task, since efforts had to be made to cover up their activities to the press and to the whole world.

Jake, I'd like to consider going forward with the current situation. Over the last ten years, we have been relatively successful with our plans, and must continue with the second part of that. What do you think?

Sir, we have come a long way. Many of us have now been in place, but many more positions need to be filled in the organization. I agree with you that we must move forward with clinical trials, even accelerate the process so that success can be achieved within the next several decades.

Jake got up from the chair and walked across the room as he continued to speak.

My people have been reviewing the current situation, and Dr. Pittman has assured us that the time is right and that we should act.

John Wendell McMaster pushed his chair back and walked several steps to the large window that looked out on the vast expanse of green lawn. He was a large man, six foot two inches tall, forty-seven years old, a graduate of Harvard, and, by some, considered to be even handsome. However, he had only been in politics for a mere seven years. Most people knew nothing about him prior to that.

Jake continued. Our group is ready and I would like to move forward in the next few weeks. Would you like to be there, Sir?

I don't know. The process has gone fine over the last decades, and up to this point, I have only been involved on several occasions. Do this, Jake. Move forward, and if there is a problem, let me know.

John McMaster turned as the door opened on the other side of the room, interrupting their meeting.

Excuse me, Sir. Mr. Dodson and the vice president would like to see you on the subject you may currently be discussing, indicated the woman standing in the doorway.

Show them in, Marie, and delay my appointments for the next thirty minutes, please.

Jake, let's wait until Dodson and Martha join us, since they have a special interest in the projects, said John.

John sat back down, putting his hand on his forehead as if he were in deep contemplation.

Are you okay, Sir, said Jake?

Yes, I'm just a little tired. This job takes its toll. If I could give it to you, Jake, would you take it?

No sir, not unless the organization wanted me to.

Just then, Marie, allowing Dodson and Martha McDermott to walk through, opened the door.

Both Jake and John rose as they entered, greeting them with real and honest smiles. They had been together, the four of them, for many years and were dedicated to the objectives of the organization.

Hello, John. Hello, Jake. I wanted to talk to you about a concern, said Martha.

Come in and sit down. We were just talking about resuming our activities with the project, John said, looking at Dodson and Martha.

Martha, vice president of the United States and a leader in the organization, was always to the point, pure business, with time to socialize only when it promoted the objectives of the group. Like Martha, all in the organization were brilliant with knowledge far above the average citizen. She had only been involved for the last ten years, her background shrouded in mystery. However, her bio described her as being born outside of Artesia, New Mexico, to Jacob and Linda McDermott, both now deceased, according to records. Her educational record consisted of several degrees from an eastern university. The birth date record was July 10, 1947. Martha had never married, despite the fact that she was drop-dead-gorgeous, with dark auburn hair and riveting dark eyes.

She raised the newspaper displaying an article on the front page.

These have shown up in the Post and other smaller papers within the last several weeks, Martha said, becoming a little more animated than necessary.

They glanced at the headline, GOVERNMENT INVOLVED IN GENE THERAPY.

Yes, yes, John said, "I've seen them.

Robert Dodson, or Dodson, the name he preferred, had been quiet during the time since he came in. During the meeting, he constantly looked at his watch, bored with the talk. He finally spoke.

Sir, I think it was a mistake that interviews to the press were ever given. It distracted us from our mission of changing the government.

You could be right, Dodson, but remember, our program was just starting, and mistakes were made. I think we're back on track, John explained, as his face showed some frustration at Dodson’s statement.

John, said Martha. What do you want us to do about the latest group of articles?

Nothing, just nothing for now. Dodson could be right. The more we call attention to it, the more of a problem we have, John declared.

However, that is not why I had you in here. Jake and I were talking, and we want to move more aggressively on clinical trials. We think the time is right.

Jake sat there quietly, listening to the conversation and always keeping an eye on Dodson.

John thinks that I work for him, and sometimes this creates a problem. If he only knew that I really report to Dodson and take direction from him, he would be upset, especially since John never really liked Dodson. I’ve always enjoyed Dodson’s assignments, like removing a problem, even when Dodson’s temper surfaced because things weren’t accomplished, as he wanted it. Killing was always in my blood, now thinking back to the assignments where organization members had to be eliminated because of mistakes made, or just for being in the way.

Have you consulted with Dr. Pittman? Dodson inquired.

Yes, and he also thinks it's time to act, John replied. Do we have agreement?

As each of the participants nodded their intent, John indicated that his next meeting was overdue.

We will carry out the action. Thank you, Mr. President, said Dodson.

Oh Dodson, could you remain for a few minutes. Sit back down, gestured John.

The door closed.

What's this business about Chatham? It was all over the newspapers this morning, the president asked.

Mr. President, Chatham had become a liability. Drake caught him reading a document in his office that outlined our project.

The mission statement?

I'm afraid so, Dodson replied.

What was Drake thinking, letting it set out for anyone to see?

Carelessness, Sir. Just complete carelessness.

I'm going to set-up a meeting with Drake, and I would like you there.

Of course, said Dodson.

John pushed the intercom button.

Yes, Mr. President, Marie said over the Intercom.

Marie. Get me the Grayfield Institute on the phone.

Marie, in the small secretarial office outside of the Oval Office knew that number by heart, having dialed it many times over the years. She had never been to the institute, but knew all of the important names there, and knew each by the sound of their voices. She also was well aware of the relationships, since reports, photos and other data were exchanged, if not daily, many times each week. Marie was so astute, and invaluable to the president, that she knew the individual he wanted to talk to based on her knowledge of the subject that had just been discussed. The president was well aware of her strengths.

The intercom buzzed in the Oval Office.

Yes, Marie.

Dr. Drake is on line two, Mr. President.

Thank you.

Hello Michael, this is John McMaster.

Hello Mr. President. I have expected your call.

Dodson will shortly make contact with you in regard to clinical trials, but I wanted to talk to you about how many patients will be involved, and what your expectations of success will be. I don't expect an answer now since we are on the phone. I would like to have a brief meeting with you today---probably best we meet in my car. It’s secure and there are no listening devices or other people around.

Yes, Sir. I am available at your discretion, said Drake.

2:00 p.m. sharp. Be out front and I’ll pick you up and drop you back there no later than 2:30 p.m.

Yes, Sir.

The line went dead.

****

Michael Drake sat there looking at the phone, wondering why the president wanted a meeting in his car verses in his office or the Oval Office, in which they had met in the past. Drake had been head of the Grayfield Institute over the last three years and had carried out the projects of the organization. Some went better than others, he remembered.

Maybe he wants to be assured that there won't be any mistakes this time. Luckily, the organization was able to destroy most of the report leaks. Unfortunately, there were increased news articles, but that couldn't be helped. Maybe he wants to be confident that we don't have another problem. However, clinical trials are different from that situation.

It was now 1:50 p.m., and he needed to go down to the front of the building to wait for the president. His experience had been that if he were late, all hell was to pay. He had felt his wrath before. Drake cleared his desk, put on his jacket, and moved toward the door. He wouldn't tell his secretary where he was going, other than for a late lunch. Belle, his secretary, was very efficient, not nosey and took directions correctly.

Belle. I'm going out for a while. Cancel any meetings for the afternoon. However, I should be back by 2:30.

As he exited the building, he noticed three men in suits standing outside.

Must be secret service agents.

Just then, the buzz of his cell phone went off.

Hello, said Drake, as he continued to walk toward the curb.

Drake, this is Dodson. The president was called to a meeting unexpectedly, and he asked me if I would take the meeting with you. If you would be so kind, could you meet me since I'm going to another meeting, and Grayfield is on the other side of town?

Sure. No problem, answered Drake.

I'll meet you at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in about twenty-five minutes. Does that give you enough time?

It’s 1:45 p.m. so I can be there by 2:40, said Drake.

Fine. See you then.

The line disconnected.

Drake backtracked to the building and into the parking lot, noticing on the way that the three men he had seen just a minute ago were gone.

Since the president wasn't coming, they must have been called back.

He reached the parking lot, unlocked and entered the dark green sedan, and headed down 4th Street past Stanton Park, turning onto Constitution Avenue heading west. The traffic was always heavy, but at this time of day, it was tolerable, and he realized he was making good time, and would probably arrive a little early. He knew it was better to be early than late, especially in this organization.

The White House loomed in the distance to the right as he passed the Ellipse, and soon he exited onto Henry Bacon Drive, and parked near the memorial to Lincoln. He glanced at his watch as he got out of the car. 2:36.

Oh, I forgot to tell Belle about the change. She'll expect me back at 2:30. Can't be helped.

Drake walked down the hill from the memorial to the black granite slabs he always felt were so moving. As he approached the wall of honor, he noticed two of the three men he had seen back at Grayfield talking beneath one of the nearby trees.

Hello, Drake, said Dodson, coming up behind the man, surprising him.

You scared the hell out of me.

Sorry. I thought it would be better to meet here since it was very private, no press.

Drake wanted to make the meeting as brief as possible, since he had had a few run-ins with Dodson before and didn't like the man.

Can we get started?

Sure. The president and I want to know all of the details of clinical trials, and how you can assure it will be a success.

All right. We have been tracking all of the doctors over the country that have reported defective genes. Since the population of the country has increased significantly, it’s been more of a chore to accumulate the data.

Have you? interrupted Dodson.

For the most part, but it’s still a work in progress.

Where and when will you start?

I've decided that we will start small, and pick some patients that we know in this area, specifically several who are at Grayfield. That way, we can monitor them more closely.

Has the process started?

Not yet, but we’re waiting for our go ahead.

The decision was made today, and the process is to begin soon, said Dodson. The president and I are also concerned about the problems we had with early trials where people died immediately. That can't happen again, lectured Dobson.

Drake, who didn't like Dodson, was getting upset.

Listen, Dodson. Scientific research is sometimes hit or miss, and you learn from your mistakes. This is not pure science, but experimentation of the highest order. We should have it perfected in the next five or ten years.

Exasperated, Dodson said in a loud voice, We don't have that time. Do you understand?

Several people looked over at the two men standing face-to-face.

I'll do my best. Tell the president that, said Drake, in a softer tone, realizing that now a number of people had taken notice.

I will. Meeting over, announced Dodson, marching off up the hill.

Screw you, muttered Drake, but Dodson was out of range and didn't hear the comment.

On the way back to the car, Drake was upset and angry at being treated like a schoolboy. With his coat pulled up high around his neck, he reached his car and got in.

I'd like to stop and have a few beers, and forget the afternoon. On second thought, it would be better to go back to the office and see if the president or Dodson wanted any follow-up information.

****

8:22 p.m. Rock Creek Park.

Two policemen driving down the parkway focused their spotlight on a car off the road and pulled up behind it. Both exited, one stood by the patrol car, and the other walked to the driver side of the abandoned vehicle.

Patrolman Baker knocked on the window trying to wake the sleeping man behind the wheel.

It's a popular place to stop, especially if you've had a few drinks.

Sir. Wake up and roll down your window. Sir.

There was no movement, so the officer carefully opened the door. As he did so, the driver fell out of the car onto the grass.

Ralph, Baker yelled. The other patrolman came quickly to the fallen man.

Check the pulse.

No pulse. He's gone. It looks like his throat was cut.

Yea. Call it in, Ralph.

Patrolman Ralph Sweden picked up the phone in the cruiser.

Reporting an apparent homicide, Virginia license plate GRAY101; dark green. Driver's license shows the deceased as Dr. Michael Drake, Leesburg Pike, Falls Church, Virginia.

Unseen by the police, Jake watched at a distance, then drove away into the darkness.

The cell phone rang somewhere in the city. Dodson picked it up on the second ring.

Hello.

It has been taken care of, Jake said.

The line disconnected.

Chapter 3

She stepped down the four steps of the doctor's office not seeing them or even being aware of the cold rain that drenched the city. It ran down her face, and washed her mascara in black streaks across her cheeks. As she wiped the rain from her eyes, the black smeared. She was completely unaware of how she looked---or cared.

Her thoughts were jumbled. She thought of the people in her life: her mother who she wasn't sure she ever knew completely, her father who left them when she was twelve, and the fact that she was ill.

Oh God, why me?

A car horn blared causing Marcy to stop at the curb, providing some measure of safety. The rain came down heavier, and she realized her whole body was wet and cold. She headed for a place to get out of the downpour. As she attempted to cross the street, she saw a coffee shop on the other side. Another blaring horn made her jump back, just inches from the offending noise.

It wasn't much of a day. November in Washington is usually cold, usually depressing, and always busy. No, not much of a day---just the day that you learn you may not live to be forty.

What the hell are you doing, lady? You have a death wish?

Marcy just stood there, eyes wide and wet. By this time, the man saw that she was someone who might need help, and his demeanor softened.

You better get out of this weather or you'll catch pneumonia, lady. Don't just stand there; it's wet out, he offered, trying now to be as soft and compassionate as he could.

Horns now blared behind him, as people were trying to get to their destinations, not caring about the lives of other people and their concerns, just themselves.

Marcy’s shock and concentration was broken.

Lady, get in the car ‘till you dry out.

Marcy’s first thoughts were that she shouldn't get into a stranger’s auto under any circumstances. Although she was an adult, and the man didn't approach her; she stepped out in front of him. The rain started pelting her even harder.

Oh, what the hell.

Without a word, she ran to the passenger side and got in.

Hi. I'm Marcy---Marcy Gillbreath.

Nice to meet you. I'm Mark McDonald, but my friends call me Mac.

She took a deep breath and realized she had given her real name.

Why didn't I just say Marcy or make up a last name, like Jones or Smith. That would have been stupid. Maybe Green or Johnson would have been more believable.

Where are you going? Mac asked, interrupting the conversation she was having with herself.

I had a doctor's appointment - couldn't find a parking place, so I parked on Court Street. It’s off of C Avenue, close to the 7 Eleven.

Sure. I know where it is.

If it’s out of your way, you can….

No, interrupted Mac. It's my pleasure. I go close to there.

Thanks.

She realized now that she had a very wet face. Taking a tissue from her purse, she wiped the water and most of the dark mascara from her skin. Marcy observed Mac as he concentrated on his driving, the heavy rain pounding the windshield.

I don't see a wedding ring. Of course, that doesn't mean anything today. Many married people don’t wear one, for whatever reason.

She noticed that he had chestnut hair, brown eyes, a good build, maybe 6 foot tall, although she couldn't be sure since he was sitting. Maybe 30 to 35 years old.

They rode in silence for a few minutes, the only sound being the thump of the windshield wipers methodically going from one side of the window to the other.

Where are you from, Marcy? May I call you Marcy?

Sure.

I wonder if I should give him any personal information, or just make up something. Oh, what the hell. I'll never see him again.

I was born in a little town outside of Tampa, and after leaving school, came to the DC area looking for a job. I always said I was a southern gal, but people would often make fun of me saying that Florida is not the south, just a satellite state of the north.

While she spoke, Mac noticed that Marcy was a beautiful blond with blue eyes, with the most radiant complexion, and no wedding band. Maybe, five foot four inches or even a little taller. She was dressed in casual clothes, jeans, but with a smart looking jacket and a dress scarf around her neck that partially protruded from the top of her jacket. He occasionally looked over as she was speaking, and noticed her breasts pushing out from under her coat. Not wanting to be obvious, and not having her think he was sizing her up, which he was, he tried to only focus on her face as he looked at her.

What about you? Marcy said, as she broke his thought pattern.

Oh, I've been here most of my life, raised in Virginia where I graduated college, and then came to DC looking for work, just like you did.

Where did you go to college? asked Marcy, surprised that he was educated.

Although nicely attired, he was not dressed in a suit, and they were in a six-year-old car, not one she thought that a college graduate in his thirties would be driving.

Mac replied that he had gone to the University of Virginia. You see, I'm a true southern guy, he admitted as he chuckled.

That seemed to have broken the tension, and Marcy smiled, a large smile.

You got me there, she said.

Mac, obviously pleased with the way the conversation was going, wanted to get to know her better, but was concerned it might seem he was coming on too strong.

Can I be so forward as to ask what you do for work when it isn't raining? trying to keep the conversation light.

I work at the Grayfield Institute. It's a biotechnology company. It’s private, but they have contracts with many of the government agencies, including the White House.

Ever see the president? Mac asked.

Yes, once when he stopped by the institute to see someone. I'm not sure whom. I never met him, but I was in the office as he and a number of people walked by.

That must have been quite a thrill, although many people see him daily in this town.

Yeah, it was. I've only been with the institute for three years, being hired as a research assistant. Last month they promoted me to chief research assistant. Doesn't that seem like an oxymoron? How can you be a chief and also be an assistant?

It sounds like you're moving up.

I like my job, and the pay is decent, but some of the people that work there are odd, mused Marcy.

What kind of odd?

They always seem so serious and don't appreciate a good joke, Marcy said, now realizing that she may be saying too much since it is a classified area, and she remembered signing documents when she was hired.

I think I've said too much about Grayfield. They are very private.

The rain was starting to break, and the sky was becoming brighter.

We’re almost there, Mac said. Which one is your car?

The blue Toyota to the left. Very conservative for an old lady.

Old? Not likely, retorted Mac. You look fresh and new as a newly minted quarter.

Obviously, Marcy was pleased with the compliment, and said so.

Thank you, Mac, and thanks for the ride.

Mac now felt like they had known each other for a long time, even though it had only been a short fifteen minutes.

May I call you? I would like to see you again.

I don't think that's a good idea, responded Marcy, her smile lessening as she remembered the doctor's news.

Okay, but I would still like to see you again. Here's my card with both my home and work numbers. If you change your mind, maybe we could talk some more about your southern heritage.

Marcy smiled. Okay. I really appreciated the ride.

She took the card, opened the door, and slipped her feet onto the ground. Without another word, she closed the door and entered her own car.

I enjoyed the conversation with him, and his shoes were highly polished, my acid test.

As Mac watched Marcy walk across the street, he noticed a slight odor of lilac where she had sat, obviously Marcy’s cologne. He smiled and knew that he would see her again. He jotted down her license plate numbers, just in case.

That's the kind of girl I'd like to marry someday.

Marcy had worried about getting a parking ticket since the meter had expired, but no yellow document on the windshield was present. She was still holding Mac’s card as she slipped behind the wheel. Finally, she looked at the gold embossed card.

Mark McDonald

Attorney at Law

398 A Maple Avenue

Washington, DC 20002

Marcy noticed there were two telephone numbers as he had indicated.

A lawyer. He's done better in life than I thought based on his appearance.

She laid the card on the passenger seat next to the Post that she had thrown in from home. Looking at the front page, she noticed an article that got her attention.

GOVERNMENT TRIES