 
### LET'S PLAY BALL

by

Linda Gould

Smashwords Edition

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Published on Smashwords by:

Linda Gould

Let's Play Ball

Copyright 2011 by Linda Gould

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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### Chapter One

Here's the story of how I got mixed up in a major crime and became a well-known heroine, when I could have been branded an outcast. I never dreamed I was the type to embroil myself in a police investigation, especially one with the potential to affect both national and international affairs and almost get me killed. But it turned out I was.

The melodrama began to unfold at a baseball game—fittingly, because the sport has always been our family pastime. My parents, my fraternal twin sister, my husband, and I were privileged to watch this crucial, sold-out game from one of the owner's boxes. It was practically the greatest experience of my life—or at least, it should have been. I sensed right away that this was a political setting, where private battles could become mingled with world events.

While I grappled with personal demons, our hometown Washington Filibusters were playing the Florida Keys for the National League championship. The Busters were in desperate straits on that bright October Sunday, down three games to two in the series and facing elimination. It was shaping up to be the kind of game that packs in drama at every turn, confirming the adage that sports are a microcosm of life. And the gamesmanship in the luxury suites, high above home plate, competed with events on the field.

I should have felt like a big shot, sitting with my husband, Tommy, at our own table, nursing a gin and tonic and sampling exotic appetizers while the game unfolded almost directly below me. At times when the alcohol penetrated my nervous system, I imagined myself above the fray in the suite, as well. The close, gripping game and the jarring personalities who were sharing our space each looked like a story cooked up for my amusement. I half listened to a debate between two particularly vocal city councilmen among the several local politicians who slipped in and out of the suite all day. A few years ago these two had fought pitched battles over the question of whether this spanking-new stadium we were sitting in should be built at all.

What brought me down to earth was the sight of my parents and sister, seated at tables of their own, and Tommy, sitting across from me, oblivious to everything except the notebook computer in front of him.

"Tommy?" I said tentatively.

"Hmm?" he answered, not looking up.

A Martian spaceship just landed on third base, and the aliens have already taken half of the Busters hostage." I kept my voice conversational.

"Great," he said without so much as a pause in the clacking of keys.

I sighed and looked at my parents, who'd been married for thirty-five mostly tranquil years. It reminded me that these exceptional seats weren't my doing. All day I had watched Mom and Dad exchange smug smiles and sometimes grasp each other's hands excitedly. "Isn't this amazing?" had been Mom's first observation on entering the suite.

"I've been watching baseball all my life," responded Dad, "and I've never had a seat like this in any ballpark."

I looked at my twin, Jessica, who was occupying another table and pounding her own notebook computer. It was hard to believe that Mom and Dad had once agonized over her refusal to take a conventional career path. They had even pointed to me as an example of a responsible person. "Hey, Jessie," I said, "if Martians were really invading the ballpark, wouldn't that make a bigger story than whatever you're writing?"

Jessie glanced up, frowned at me as if annoyed to be distracted for even a second, and returned to her typing. Well excuse me, I thought, for trying to introduce some levity.

Thanks to the combined efforts of Tommy and Jessie, the beeps and clicks of productivity were bombarding me in stereo. For a moment I wondered if they were in cahoots to make me feel as insignificant as possible. But no, that would require one or both of them to be aware of my existence. I sat back in my seat with arms crossed and tried to focus on the game, a tense but fast-moving pitchers' duel. Both teams' aces were mowing down batters, allowing no walks and only a few singles.

I knew Jessie was recording impressions of the game for an online sports magazine that she had helped found. But maintaining journalistic objectivity would be a special challenge for Jessie today—her fiancé, Manuel Chavez, was in right field for the Busters. She was about to become, at twenty-nine, the second wife of the foreign-born ballplayer, whose future might be riding on this game.

If Jessie ever felt jealousy toward me, her three-years-married sister, she didn't show it. Nor did she envy my relatively comfortable federal government career as a budget analyst. The tables had really turned for both of us since Jessie returned from the University of Florida seven years ago in despair. Manny had just broken up with her to marry a beauty pageant winner who, like he, had emigrated from Cuba as a child. Back then my sister had reason to be jealous of me.

Happy as she was now, she did look nervous about today's game. Her Manny was on the brink of free agency. Going into the bottom of the sixth inning, the game was still scoreless, and Manny was due up third. He was hitless so far today and had struggled throughout the series, a disappointment after his fine regular season. His chances of signing a big contract during the upcoming off-season might depend on his ability to handle this kind of playoff pressure. No wonder Jessie kept interrupting her typing to wring her hands and wipe sweat off her face.

She was not only nervous, but also a tad paranoid. Hours earlier when we'd picked up our special passes at the will-call window, she had warned us to be careful about what we said in the suite today. Although she couldn't prove it, she suspected the place would be bugged. "Call me crazy," she'd said, "but I just don't trust the people running this ball club." Mom and Dad tried to laugh this off, but I noticed Tommy did not. Still, we kept our voices fairly low, but the councilmen drowned us out, anyway.

Bugged or not, our suite was equipped with a high-definition TV monitor. This allowed us to catch nuances of the game that only a network broadcast could provide while continuing to watch the live action. Bob Erickson, the regular play-by-play announcer for the Filibusters, was working this national game with his usual boyish charm and relaxed style, which sometimes cushioned what he was saying.

"The Filibusters are in a rather unique position right now," he told his partner. "There are an unusual number of prominent players looking for new contracts at the end of this season or next. Naturally, management won't be addressing those issues until the team is done playing for the season. But there have been hints that they'll be looking to reduce payroll, whether the Busters win this championship series or not."

"I would think Busters management would be looking to keep a solid team like this one intact," remarked the other announcer.

"Most team owners would," replied Erickson. "But Mr. Carter's philosophy is that solid isn't good enough. He wants that, of course, but he also believes in youth and economy."

The commentators went on to mention the bad blood that had existed all season between the Busters and the Keys—the usual beanball battles and bench-clearing incidents. "But the feud doesn't seem to have done any lasting damage," added Erickson. "Today's game has been intense, but clean. Not a single hit batsman so far, knock on wood."

As an ardent fan of this relatively new DC franchise, I had expected to be excited to see the two combative teams play for such high stakes. What I didn't expect was to have the breath knocked out of me when the door to the suite burst open and both team owners entered. It was suddenly as if they commanded all the oxygen in the room. The two debating city councilmen fell silent. Both Tommy and Jessie stopped typing. Mom dropped Dad's hand as if it were a hot potato.

The new arrivals made quite a contrast physically; one was ruddy, medium height, and balding, while the other was tall and slim, with abundant, dark hair and a full mustache. The former's name was Johnson "Johnny" Carter. The majority owner of the Filibusters, Carter was around sixty-five and a weekend athlete with large gestures. His counterpart from the Keys, Javier "Javy" Castilla, was younger and more reserved, but almost as friendly as Carter. Both of them looked us over with evident interest. We were strangers to them; even Jessie, who had spent time in the press box, had not met them face-to-face.

You would have thought the Austen family was a big deal. Sidestepping the quarrelsome politicians, Mr. Carter made a beeline for me and introduced himself and his fellow owner. I rose halfway from my seat, extended a hand to each in turn, and stammered, "I'm Miranda Stone, and this is my husband, Thomas Stone." I hoped they didn't notice my flushed face and sweaty palm. They looked slightly perplexed, which compelled me to add, "I'm Jessica Austen's twin sister."

"Ah, Jessica Austen's twin sister," exclaimed Johnson Carter, his eyebrows shooting up. His gaze slipped from my dark brown shoulder-length hair and rather flat chest to Jessie's blue-eyed visage and voluptuous presence. Jessie was twirling one golden lock around a manicured finger as if she were oblivious to Carter's attention. Finally, he glanced back at me. "Fraternal, I assume?" I nodded, surprised to find myself seething inside.

But determined to overcome my tongue-tied state, I sparred with Mr. Carter as best I could about the family's interest in baseball and the lack of obvious resemblance between Jessica and me. Still, my internal distress did not subside. I guess I hadn't realized, until that moment, how much I craved recognition for myself.

Even more disturbing was the contempt I felt for my husband, who now came out of his funk and started playing up to these rich and powerful men. "What's that you're working on, Thomas?" asked Carter, glancing at the legal brief or whatever it was that had absorbed Tommy all afternoon.

"Oh, I don't think he's at liberty to say—" I jumped in, before Tommy brushed me off with a wave of his hand.

"Honestly, Randi," he said, "you act like I'm a CIA agent or something." He exchanged an amused glance with Carter, as if to say, aren't women overly dramatic at times? He spilled a few details about the case, and Carter reminisced about a deal or two that Tommy's firm had negotiated on his behalf. Tommy nodded knowingly, as if he had been personally involved in that work.

The pair of owners moved on to my parents, charming them, and then to the politicians, neutralizing them. All this time, my sister had been silently taking in their moves. When they approached her, she met their gazes head-on. "I already know quite a bit about you gentlemen," she said in a mild tone, "and I suspect you know me by reputation." No wonder I admired her more than I resented her.

After exchanging pleasantries with Mr. Castilla and thanking Mr. Carter for his hospitality toward her family, Jessie slipped almost imperceptibly into journalist mode. "I thought I might be privileged to encounter one of you today, but certainly not both of you. You're not in the habit of attending games together, are you?"

"It's a pretty small club we belong to," said Carter, smiling. "It's hardly surprising that we would run into each other at a game."

"Our friendship goes back a long way," added Castilla in a calm voice that displayed only a slight accent.

"I didn't know the two of you were particular friends." Jessie spoke as if she had certain knowledge that they were not. "And isn't this an unusual time to be hanging out together?"

Carter and Castilla offered further explanations that I knew my sister would recognize as glib. Having grown up in the post-Watergate era, she considered every official statement a potential cover-up. She was always "following the money" and cultivating her own modern-day Deep Throats. She defined her journalism as an ongoing battle against new and evolving forms of Fascism.

I thought this was pretty ambitious for a mere sportswriter, but Jessie always had aspired to be greater than her current career. I often warned her not to alienate too many high-level sources, as she had been known to do before. I feared it might happen again as she zeroed in on the surprising fellowship between these two team owners. Luckily, her pursuit of this possible story was overtaken by events on the field. The Busters' three best hitters were coming to bat against the Keys' formidable pitcher, Ron Olgesby, in the sixth inning. The ace had scattered only five singles so far and had throttled the third, fourth, and fifth batters in the lineup. The two owners departed, presumably to watch this critical half-inning from a more private vantage point.

"Those two are definitely up to something," Jessie declared. "It smells like collusion. I'm going to track them down and ask a few questions before this day is over."

"I'd be careful with those guys if I were you," I said. "Do I need to remind you about the biggest source you ever blew? Deirdre Smith is at the game today, in case you've forgotten. Upstairs in the presidential suite. But have we been invited there to see her? You'll never get near her again, since you saw fit to insult her."

Jessie winced at my mention of the daughter of the president of the United States. We had first gotten to know Deirdre during our high school summers when we'd attended an arts camp. Her father had been a Virginia congressman who was eventually elected governor. We'd kept in touch with Deirdre during our college years and managed to get ourselves invited to a weekend retreat for young women at the governor's mansion in Richmond.

"Are you ever going to stop bringing that up, Randi? We were college kids then, for God's sake."

"Well, how can I forget it, Jessie? It's not every day that I get to hear my sister refer to a roomful of prominent Virginia society women as sheep."

"How many female anti-feminist speakers did they expect me to endure?" returned Jessie. "All of them telling us that the heights of our ambition should be to marry prominent men and be stay-at-home mothers. They're lucky they didn't get a worse jibe than that from me."

"Actually, they did," I replied. "Remember when you proceeded to accuse Governor Smith himself of ignoring or succumbing to numerous examples of encroaching Fascism? If you didn't shock the gathering before, you did then."

"Well I'm sorry, Randi, if I spoiled it for you. I had no idea keeping Deirdre's friendship was that important to you."

"It wasn't," I said, "but you could have salvaged something from it yourself. She was perfectly sweet to us as long as that weekend lasted. She would have been willing to keep up appearances if you had met her halfway. And now that she's not only the president's daughter, but the wife of a Florida congressman, she could have been a fount of information."

"Well," snorted Jessie, "not all is lost. At least we've been on the White House holiday card list every year."

It was time to turn our full attention to the field. Jessie's sports writing had always focused on personalities and backstories rather than the technical aspects of games, and something told me that this would be the inning when those subplots emerged. Busters center fielder Petie Jansen was digging in at the plate. Following him would be first baseman Wilson Boyd, and then Manny, the right fielder. Jansen and Boyd were known to be best buddies, country boys who referred to themselves proudly as rednecks and who didn't hide their frequent irritation with the "immigrant" contingent in their sport.

"Watch Petie," I said. "He's overdue for some flaky behavior."

Jessie glanced at me with raised brows, no doubt wondering how well I knew Jansen. She had always grappled with the fact that Tommy and I had met both him and Boyd at a shooting range and had struck up an acquaintance while indulging in target practice together.

Besides that, I suspected she still resented Jansen for an incident this past May, when he and Manny had collided in the outfield while chasing a fly ball. Petie had walked away almost unscathed, while Manny spent a week in the hospital, undergoing tests to make sure the initial temporary paralysis he'd suffered was unlikely to recur. Petie paid him a visit, which happened to coincide with one of Jessie's sojourns in his room. She claimed that Petie had sneered to find her nursing Manny back to health by reading to him from her archive of articles. That day, Manny had requested to hear the one that had brought them back together a year earlier. Jessie had chronicled his ultimately successful battle to retrieve his son from his ex-wife, who had snatched the three-year-old after their divorce and fled with him to their native Cuba.

Now, watching Petie strike out for the third time in the game and risk ejection by taunting the umpire as he walked away, Jessie did not bother to suppress a chuckle.

The next man up, first baseman Wilson Boyd, was harder to figure. An extreme extrovert, he organized frequent hunting and fishing trips and tried to include every teammate. It was only those who disliked outdoor sports, like Manny, whom he denounced as "skirts." Boyd never stopped trying to make friends, but Manny harbored a professional grudge against him. Although Manny never complained publicly, he resented that Boyd, on joining the team this season, had replaced him both as first baseman and left-handed cleanup hitter.

To some experts, these moves were counterintuitive. With his thirty-five home runs during the regular season, Manny had proven himself to be the best power hitter on the team. This should have secured him the cleanup position. Boyd, who led the team in batting average but hit ten fewer homers, seemed to belong in the second or third spot in the lineup. Jessie rarely discussed team issues with Manny, who was a "suck it up" type during the season. But she had shared some of her darker suspicions with me.

"You girl reporter types are always looking for conspiracies," I'd kidded her. But I couldn't totally discount her theory that some of the lineup decisions were political. Johnson Carter had served two terms in Congress as a dependable conservative from southern Virginia, just like his friend and mentor, President Jeremiah Smith. When he had bought the Filibusters, he'd recruited several African-Americans as investors, but since then the co-owner group had become divided and minimized. He had appointed his eldest son field manager. The general manager he selected was a former fundraiser for his campaigns, and one of his younger sons and his daughter, Madeline, also served in high management positions.

Boyd stepped to the plate. "Well, let's see if Wilson the Conqueror can earn his exalted status right now," said Jessie, using her sarcastic nickname for the cleanup hitter. "What better time for him to prove Busters management was right to favor him over Manny?"

"Even if I sometimes accuse you of being paranoid, Jess, I have to admit that when you're right, you're right. Manny's outplayed Boyd all season."

"He sure has," she replied. "And that's not the only thing I intend to ask Carter about once I actually score an interview with him. I'll pick the damned outfit apart. What about all the other immigrant players he's sold, traded, or demoted? What about the African-Americans who somehow never got long-term contracts?" Anger crept into Jessie's voice as she counted the names on her fingers, her engagement ring blazing as it caught the light of the overhead chandelier. "Hernandez, Williamson, Perez, Michaels ... why do so many non-white players seem to have such bad luck in this organization?"

"True," I said, "but didn't we just see Carter palling around with Castilla?"

Jessie snorted again in that unique way of hers that somehow came across as adorable. "I don't believe for a minute they're pals. They're doing some kind of business—and I'd really like to know what kind."

Both Tommy and Dad reacted to Jessie's diatribe with slight grimaces and rolls of the eyes, while the councilmen reacted not at all, once again wrapped up in their own debate. I fell to wondering if Carter's pose of friendship with Castilla was a ruse to deflect any suspicions of bigotry. Or maybe he respected Hispanics who had acquired as much power as he had.

I was shaken out of my reverie by the crack of a bat. Wilson Boyd had sent a sharply hit ground ball up the middle. But the Keys shortstop dove to his left, scooped up the ball, and threw a streak to first in time to nip Boyd.

The roar of excitement from forty-five thousand Busters fans, hoping for a rally-starter at last, immediately dulled as Boyd tossed his batting helmet in frustration and turned toward the dugout. But the crowd remained on its feet, cheering as Manny strode to the plate. A "now or never" mood embraced the stadium. Adding to the electric atmosphere, everyone in the ballpark seemed to remember the occasion six weeks prior when Olgesby had thrown a fastball close to Manny's head in retaliation for a home run, setting off a brawl. Olgesby lost no time demonstrating that the incident remained fresh for him. The first pitch whizzed past Manny's chin, causing him to fall on his ass.

The crowd howled for revenge, while my companions and I held our collective breath. Players in both dugouts got off their benches and waited at the top of the stairs, ready to surge onto the field. The home plate umpire pointed first to Olgesby, who shrugged and sent back his usual innocent smirk. Then the ump pointed to both benches, warning them.

An uneasy peace prevailed as Olgesby delivered his next pitch. Throughout the season, he had won most of his battles with the free-swinging Manny by enticing him to chase pitches barely out of his comfort zone. His next offering was meant to break just off the outside corner of the plate, but as soon as it was released, I knew it would stay up and catch more of the plate than Olgesby intended. "Hold that bat steady, baby," Jessie muttered, leaning forward and tightening her grip on her chair's armrests.

The sound of contact was solid. The ball sailed in a slowly rising arc toward a colorful SUV ad plastered on the bullpen wall in right-center field. The crowd roared, as if the sound could help to elevate the ball. The center fielder raced back, raising his glove to track the ball. When he got to the barrier, he hoisted himself up, extended his glove as far as he could, and squeezed. He fell off the wall and stared at his empty glove. A Busters relief pitcher in the bullpen held the ball aloft as the crowd exploded.

Could Hollywood have scripted this any better? Manny took his time trotting around the bases, soaking in the moment. Ron Olgesby picked up the rosin bag and threw it down in disgust. The crowd celebrated wildly.

"Yes!" screamed Jessie, punching her fist in the air. Again her engagement ring caught the light and dazzled me for a moment. Our parents jumped up to hug her, Mom leading the charge, while Dad hung back until she had finished pouring out her jubilation. I hesitated, too, but for a different reason.

I couldn't take my eyes off Manny. His post-homer poses were riveting. I analyzed his confident stride back to the dugout, his choice of teammates for high fives, his interactions with the manager and hitting coach, his exuberant sloppiness in downing a cup of water, his modest refusal to come out and take extra bows as the crowd chanted his name. I'm sure Jessie had no clue that before I went over and hugged her, I had checked out her fiancé, noticing all those details and more.

As I congratulated my sister, I looked back at Tommy, who as usual had only a muted reaction to anything that didn't concern him directly. It hurt me to notice it; he had not always been this way. I made a few unfavorable comparisons between him and Manny. It almost felt like cheating on him, though I must say, it did make me feel better.

As the game moved into the late innings, with the Busters clinging to a one-run lead and their fans cautiously optimistic, we ordered a second round of drinks. Even Jessie, who was "working," broke down and had a gin and tonic. Both starting pitchers were lifted for pinch hitters.

In the top of the eighth inning, the Keys mounted a threat against the Busters reliever, putting runners on first and second with two out. The Keys' next batter singled sharply to right field, and it seemed the game would be tied. However, Manny got to the ball quickly and relayed it to Wilson Boyd, who fired it to home plate. The runner was called out on a close play, which brought the Keys manager out to argue. While he was getting himself thrown out of the game, the Busters were running off the field, high-fiving on all sides. Boyd waited for Manny to arrive from the outfield so that he could smother his "rival" in a bear hug.

After another scoreless Busters at-bat, their young closer, Jose Pasqual, entered the game to try for the save in the top of the ninth. Like all hard throwers, Pasqual sometimes struggled with his control. But he had good composure for a kid, and he usually recovered his focus when it mattered most. Although frequently in trouble, he had not blown a save since July. Still, we all started gulping our drinks nervously in the owner's box.

Given his history of high-wire acts, we groaned when young Jose walked the leadoff batter. Recovering, he blew two quick strikes past the next batter. Then he came inside—too close—and the pitch grazed the guy above the knee. The hit batsman glared at the pitcher and trotted to first base. The crowd booed his act and exhorted Pasqual to bear down. I could feel their intensity vibrating through the floor beneath my feet.

The next batter laid down a sacrifice bunt, which put runners on second and third with one out. After an intentional walk loaded the bases, Pasqual faced the next man, hoping to induce a game-ending double play.

He got what he wanted—a ground ball to the shortstop. I could taste victory as the fielder charged the ball and whipped it to second base. But the second baseman had trouble getting the ball out of his glove. The runner beat the throw to first, and the tying run scored.

Disappointment reigned, but there was still hope. If Pasqual could recover quickly and preserve a tie heading into the bottom of the ninth, the Busters could win the game with a single run. But confronted with the biggest challenge of his young career, the pitcher met with disaster. On the very next pitch, a three-run homer reduced the crowd to stunned silence.

Things fell apart in the suite, as well. Jessie buried her head in her hands and then pounded the table and cursed. God, I thought, please cut the melodrama. It's hardly the end of the world. Your wedding next month will still be everything you dreamed of, even if the groom isn't sporting a World Series ring. There's plenty of time for that.

I wanted to say these things in a kind, but firm tone. Instead, my sisterly instincts were aroused when Tommy picked this moment to provoke Jessie. "I'd say this is fair payback for the way certain Busters players turned their backs on the president last week. He was just there to throw out the first ball. And they purposely embarrassed him."

Arguments like this kept popping up at awkward times, as Tommy completed his transformation from the idealistic liberal I had known in college to an apologist for the current neoconservative regime. Jessie flushed, as she always did when Tommy baited her politically. "Oh, I wouldn't trouble my mind about Smith's hurt feelings if I were you. There were plenty of other guys on the team fawning over him. Not to mention the owner and manager."

"Certain players could use a refresher course in etiquette," continued Tommy, "assuming they ever had a clue in the first place how to behave around their betters. Maybe that would be a good use of the extra time they'll have once they blow their chance at the World Series."

"It's Smith's own fault if 'certain players,' as you put it, don't feel he's their president," Jessie shot back. "And besides, they're not beaten yet. Not until the last out."

"It's over," said Tommy, expressing an opinion on a baseball game for the first time in my memory. He caught my dad's eye, and I thought they exchanged a subtle look.

I saw Jessie's hand tighten around her unfinished gin and tonic. Manny was due up second in the bottom of the ninth, so she could have taken Tommy's doomsday prediction personally. Would she throw her drink at him, as she had done once before, when a family dinner had gotten out of hand? But her grip loosened, as if a new idea had diverted her.

By now Jessie must have conceded, like the rest of us, that the Keys' experienced closer would easily protect a three-run lead, and our team would indeed lose its first attempt in franchise history at a World Series berth. Unlike the rest of us, though, she would refuse to chalk this up to an unfortunate turn of events. How could the Filibusters have failed so miserably when they had been heavily favored going in? She wasn't one to say that "stuff just happens."

A reliever for Pasqual had to come in to get the last Keys out. Then Wilson Boyd, the first batter up for the Busters in the bottom of the inning, personified the crowd's frustrated dreams when he struck out, threw his bat down, and cussed out the umpire. His ejection from the game at this late stage was a mere formality, but he made a show of it. Manny's at-bat was delayed as Boyd wound up his season by grabbing several bats out of the rack in the dugout and tossing them onto the field.

Before the game resumed, with Manny at the plate, Jessie rose to her feet. Everyone in the suite looked at her questioningly—except the councilmen, who were re-enacting yet another ancient battle, this one about cost overruns on the stadium.

"Something is seriously wrong here," declared Jessie.

"I know how disappointed you are," said Mom. "We all are. But you just have to—"

"No, Mom, I'm not disappointed. I'm not angry, either. I'm troubled."

"There's no need to be concerned about your future, honey," said Dad. "Manny proved himself during the regular season. You and he will do fine, even if it means leaving DC."

"Of course you will," agreed Mom, although her voice sounded a little brusque, and her eyes looked shiny at the possibility of Jessie leaving.

"Why don't you just sit down and finish watching the game?" I chimed in.

Jessie literally refused to sit for this loss. She moved to the coat closet and retrieved her jacket, which matched her sleeveless, blue dress. Then she exited the suite, ignoring our questions about where she was going. I believed she had been nursing some new theory ever since the two owners had burst into our suite. She was now ready to pursue that theory by visiting the neighboring suites. She must be totally possessed by this idea, whatever it was, if it seemed more important than watching what was likely Manny's last at-bat of the season.

My impulse was to follow her and find out what she was up to, but I couldn't resist watching her fiancé's brave effort, which only prolonged the agony of defeat. He crowded the plate, daring the pitcher to brush him back, and worked the count full before striking out. The disgruntled crowd gave him little credit for trying.

I deserted the cause with one out to go, exercising the right of twin sisters everywhere to stick together—a rule that had always served Jessie and me well, even at times when we were barely speaking. The door of the suite next to ours was slightly ajar, which told me that Jessie had already gotten in. I pushed it open, and there she was, talking to a "source"—a lovely Hispanic woman in her early to mid twenties, about six months pregnant, with her arms around a lively little boy who was tugging on her hand, pointing in every direction and demanding to be set free to explore.

"Come in, Randi," said Jessie, "and meet Mrs. Consuelo Pasqual—Jose's wife—and their son, Melvin. Consuelo, this is my sister, Miranda." I shook hands with both Mrs. Pasqual and her precocious son.

Obviously distressed by the day's events, Consuelo looked at me wide-eyed as if for reassurance. Jessie explained to me, "We've been comparing notes about the mysterious joint tour of Mr. Carter and Mr. Castilla through these suites—two billionaires who've had a contentious relationship in the past. And Consuelo has filled me in about another young family, friends of hers, being entertained nearby. Seems all of us who were invited to the suites as special guests today have something in common. We're associated with Hispanic players who will become free agents in the near future—either this year or next."

"Is it possible that's just a coincidence?" I asked.

"You tell me. I can think of several Anglo players who're in the exact same contract position. But their families aren't up here in the suites today."

"I think Mr. Carter want to get rid of us." Consuelo spoke carefully, with a heavy accent. "And Mr. Castilla sizing us up. Maybe we all end up in Florida."

She seemed teary-eyed at the prospect. Her husband had played poorly at an inopportune time, lessening his bargaining power. Still, why should she mind if Jose went to the Keys? He'd be compensated well enough, and southern Florida wasn't exactly a foreign country.

"I guess sometimes you have to expect the unexpected when you're on a big stage like this," I said. "It's a business, after all."

"Sure it's a business," said Jessie, "but if there's collusion going on between two owners, it's not business as usual. I'm detecting a disturbing pattern here."

I threw out a challenge that I knew Jessie wouldn't be able to resist. "It'd be hard to prove it's really there."

Sure enough, she responded, "We'll see about that." She smiled and patted Consuelo's hand. "Try not to worry, okay? I'm gonna do my best to get to the bottom of this. Right now, before the game ends."

"You'll have to move fast," I said, pointing to the TV monitor. We noted that the third batter of the inning, like Manny, had worked the count full. When he took ball four, a small shiver of hope stirred the crowd. For the moment, we suspended the doomsday talk.

The Keys' near-perfect closer began to sweat. Struggling with his control as he faced the next batter, third baseman Joe Plummer, he missed the outside corner twice. The third pitch was over the plate, and Plummer slapped it up the middle for a single. Now sensing a rally, the crowd was revived. A chant went up for the next batter, the Busters' catcher. "Mel! Mel! Mel!"

Jessie and Consuelo touched hands again. Consuelo smiled shyly at me, hugged her son, and explained, "Melvin Bonilla is my little boy's godfather."

"And he happens to be the other Hispanic player whose family is being wined and dined in the suites today," added Jessie.

"In that case, I hope he knocks it out of the park," I offered. But would it make any difference? I tried to imagine Bonilla becoming an instant hero and keeping the Busters alive in the series. Maybe then Carter would have second thoughts about dealing him—and that, in turn, might affect the status of the other players he planned to let go.

The sound of a big hit rang out, signaling a hoped-for miracle. Maybe the thrill of it would awaken Johnson Carter to the value of diversity on his team. It might shake any notion he had that Hispanic players could only be happy and productive if they were situated close to their original homes or with their own kind. The ecstasy of this moment, if it led to victory, could energize the city. Maybe Carter would choose to sustain that feeling by keeping the team together as long as he could. His bigotry, however ingrained it was, would be neutralized.

The crowd roared and screamed, trying to propel the ball over the center field wall on the same lovely arc traveled by Manny's earlier home run. Again the center fielder gave chase and made a desperate lunge. The shrieks reached fever pitch as the fielder slammed against the barrier and bounced off, barely keeping his feet. He looked down at his glove and saw the ball. As he leaped into the air, his teammates copied his antics. The crowd's yells died away, leaving behind a murmur that sounded like a prolonged groan.

The Keys players on the bench rushed out to join the celebration, forming a jubilant, writhing mass near the pitcher's mound. The home fans ignored or booed the scene as they began their torturous exit from the stadium. Jessie, Consuelo, and I gazed at the TV monitor in disbelief.

After a few moments, Jessie broke the spell with a shake of her blonde locks. "Well, back to business for me. I still intend to find out what the two mega-powerful owners have been up to."

Consuelo smiled sadly as they parted with a hug. I gave Jessie an incredulous look before following her out of the suite. This I had to see.

Jessie headed for the largest suite on this level, passing two closed doors on the way, with me on her heels. We saw a huge, uniformed, African-American man standing in front of the main suite with muscular arms folded against his chest. He was trading jibes with passers-by, who called him Hoss. Some were asking him to deliver messages, none too polite, to the owners within. If they became persistent, he told them to move on.

As Jessie approached him, she removed her press pass, a notebook, and a pencil from her jacket's large inner pocket. It was a well-practiced maneuver to establish her journalistic bona fides. Flashing the pass, she told the guard she had been promised an interview with Mr. Carter. He laughed and shook his head as if he had been forewarned about her.

"I'll wait if I have to," said Jessie. "Meanwhile, mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"I don't know nothing," said the guard, still chuckling.

"You must know the two gentlemen in there pretty well," said Jessie. "Have you seen how they act together? Is it buddy-buddy, or strictly business?"

"I just do my job, miss," said the guard. "It ain't none of my business how they act. And excuse me for saying so, but I doubt it's any of yours, either."

"Actually, I believe it is," returned Jessie, waving her pass. "I believe those two are making deals that can affect quite a few lives."

"Lots of rich guys do that. If I ain't worried about it, why should you be?"

"Aren't you the least bit curious? I would think you'd want to understand the rich and powerful men you're protecting. Otherwise, how do you know it's in your best interest to do it?"

Oh, Christ, Jessie, I thought. Lighten up. You may smell a hot story here, but do you have to be a patronizing ass? You practically called this guy an Uncle Tom.

"Looks like you're just trying to dig up dirt, miss." The guard maintained his calm demeanor. "I know your type. So I'm asking you to move along like a good girl."

Jessie pulled out a one-hundred-dollar bill and held it close to the guard's face. "Would this loosen your tongue a little? All I want to know is whether Carter and Castilla are discussing player contracts. I have a personal interest in that, not just a reporter's interest."

If the guard were tempted, he didn't show it. Maybe he resisted offers like this every day. I tugged my sister's arm, hoping to keep this confrontation from escalating.

"I got a better story idea for you, miss," said Hoss. "Why don't you scoot upstairs to the presidential suite and pester the guard there? President Smith's daughter and her husband, the congressman, were around today. That means their security folks took charge of pretty much everything. Who knows, maybe they let my pal in on some juicy gossip."

"I have no interest in gossip about Deirdre and Ernest," huffed Jessie.

The guard's walkie-talkie came to life. An official-sounding voice reported that a fight had broken out on the field. Several drunken fans had come out of the stands and taken exception to the Keys' postgame celebration.

"I gotta talk to Mr. Carter about this," said Hoss, "which means you gotta leave, miss. You ain't getting into this suite ever, as long as I'm around. Move on right now, or I'll call in reinforcements."

"Reinforcements?" Jessie laughed as she stared at the guard's huge arms. "To help you arrest one girl reporter?"

"Forget it, Jess," I said as I pulled her away. "You missed your chance with the big cheeses. Find somebody else to interview."

"I will, don't worry. After I check out what's happening on the field."

We returned to our original suite, which had emptied out. Only Mom and Dad were there, watching the fisticuffs on the field and shaking their heads. "This is what comes of fans tailgating and drinking all day," said Dad, who had never even indulged in a beer at the ballpark while Jessie and I were growing up. We listened to the TV commentators as they toted up the Keys players who were likely to be fined for participating in this rumble, although they had not started it.

"Looks like something out of _West Side Story_ ," I commented. Jessie shot me a dirty look, as if she detected racism in that remark.

"I'm just thankful none of the Filibusters players are mixed up in it," she said. Security personnel gained the upper hand on the field, detaining five or six fans. We saw on the TV monitor that the Keys players had made it to their clubhouse, where a champagne-soaked celebration was in progress. The reporters stationed there began interviewing the victors. Since the fight on the field had dwindled to a non-story, Jessie relaxed.

"Manny will be meeting us here," she said. "I'm sure he'll get out of the clubhouse as fast as he can. The postmortems in there won't be fun."

Our parents reminded us that we had dinner reservations at the Palm Restaurant for 7:30, about an hour from now. "That's fine," I told them. "But we seem to have lost Tommy. Did he say where he was going?"

My father's mouth tightened. Though I knew he quietly supported some of Tommy's burgeoning political views, I could tell he was still on my side. "No, he didn't. He's been gone about twenty minutes."

My parents and sister looked at me searchingly. I just shrugged. They kept looking, and I offered, "He'll be back soon. He won't miss a chance to go to the Palm." Especially when somebody else is paying, I thought.

"I hope he gets here before Manny does," said Jessie. "I don't know why—I've never felt this way before. But I have this sudden, nagging urge to interview my brother-in-law."

"Jesus, why?" I laughed. "He's not one of the movers and shakers you normally chase. A wannabe, maybe, but not there yet."

"He seemed pretty friendly with Johnny Carter."

Whenever Jessie looked me straight in the eyes, as she did now, I couldn't hide. "He's got an appointment with somebody in the front office, doesn't he?" she asked.

"I can only speculate about that," I replied. "He doesn't tell me much of anything—hasn't for months. I have to snoop around for any information I get. Luckily, I've learned some of those techniques from you, dear Jess."

My mother pressed her lips together, while my father furrowed his brows and began to pace. I had hoped we could get through tonight's family dinner out on the town without fueling their distress about the state of my marriage. Damn Tommy, I thought, for jeopardizing even that modest goal.

"I hope you haven't resorted to underhanded tactics," said Mom.

"Oh, Mom," said Jessie, "there are times when propriety is overrated. If Randi has to snoop to get the information she needs to make the best possible life decisions, more power to her."

Our mother regarded both of us with worried eyes as Jessie set out to discover what I knew and how I knew it. I was forced to admit I had rooted through Tommy's briefcase while he was in the shower the other day. I had found a letter, which I'd managed to read with lightning speed and put back unnoticed.

"You think he's having an affair?" asked Jessie.

"If he is," said Dad, clenching his fists, "I'll knock his block off."

"Relax, Dad," I told my father, who had never hit anyone in his life. "I really don't think he's having an affair. He's just been corresponding with Johnson Carter's daughter. She's a good ten years older than he is, and she has a husband and family."

"Randi and I have known Madeline Carter a lot longer than Tommy has," Jessie informed our parents. "At least from a distance. She delivered a couple of lectures at that Richmond conference we attended when we were college students. Her dad was a Virginia congressman back then, when Deirdre Smith's dad was governor. It looked like Madeline and Deirdre were destined to form some kind of unholy political alliance. And I'll bet it's still going strong to this day."

Even back then, I reflected, Madeline and Deirdre had been a study in contrasts, despite their united political front. Madeline was tall and dignified, the opposite of petite and giggly Deirdre. Eight years later, they came off much the same way to the public eye. Deirdre, like many stay-at-home mothers, seemed ready to explode with pent-up energy, while Madeline juggled her family and professional lives with unflappable cool.

"I remember Madeline's little talk about the evils of gun control and the importance of women learning to embrace firearms," I said.

"I have a theory that women who love guns that much tend to be oversexed." Jessie goaded me with a smile. "That occurred to me the first time I laid eyes on Madeline."

"Oh, come on, Jessie," I said. "She was the soul of refinement then, and she still is. She looked like she was in training to be the first lady of something. Or a grand dame of society."

"Remember her other fascinating speech," continued Jessie, "about electronic surveillance and its potential to save the world? She declared that Nixon's only mistake was not keeping his tapes a secret."

This seemed to remind everyone of Jessie's earlier warning about possible bugs in the suite. She might be paranoid, but I noticed that we all lowered our voices just a little.

"So you saw a letter to Tommy from Madeline, but it didn't strike you as a love letter," summed up Jessie. "What was it about?"

A job offer, but nothing very specific. My guess is that Tommy's in Madeline's office right now, having a quickie interview. _"_

"What would the Carters want with him?" asked Jessie. "He doesn't know squat about baseball."

I conceded as much but pointed out that the Carter family's reach extended well beyond sports, encompassing a variety of business and political interests. "I'd rather none of you questioned him about it when he comes back—at least not tonight, okay? He won't talk anyway. I'll find out for myself what's going on."

Tommy returned just as I finished speaking. He apologized that he had taken so long in the bathroom—it must have been the spicy nachos and strong gin and tonics. He was such a bad liar, talking too fast and avoiding eye contact, that the rest of us could barely keep straight faces. I usually took umbrage when he insulted my intelligence. But lately, I had found it strategically smart to play dumb.

We returned our attention to the TV monitor, which continued to show the Keys' locker room celebration. The Busters' Petie Jansen and Wilson Boyd had turned up in the midst of it, having evidently appointed themselves representatives of the losing team on a mission to congratulate the victors. This sort of goodwill gesture was a tradition that seemed to persist after championship series in baseball, no matter how much bad blood had marred the games themselves. But Jansen and Boyd proved to be the worst possible emissaries. They were helping themselves to the champagne and carrying on loud discussions with anyone who would respond.

With their help, the irritable feelings that had been simmering soon boiled over. During the trophy presentation featuring National League and Keys officials, Boyd could be heard yelling, "You're all a bunch of cheaters, and the higher-ups know it."

This should have been laughed off as a "boys will be boys" moment. But when Jansen pushed a Keys player who had told him and Boyd to shut up, the player answered with a punch, and another rumble was on. Fists flew, along with the champagne spray. The officials froze at the podium, no doubt fearing Major League Baseball would get a black eye.

"Amazing how all it takes is two dumb rednecks to start a war," I observed.

"They should both be suspended for at least a month next season," declared Jessie.

The TV broadcast went to a split screen, showing both teams' clubhouses. While the turbulence continued on one side, Manny appeared on the other, interrupting an interview to address the situation. "C'mon, guys. We're all disappointed about the way things went down today. But I'm appealing to you as a friend. Now's the time to show what we're really made of." His presumption of friendship with the rednecks made Jessie shake her head, even as her face glowed with pride.

Her fiancé continued, "It's called sportsmanship. We rise and fall as a team. That means both winning and losing with dignity. So get back over here with your teammates where you belong."

Boyd and Jansen subsided, although I doubted that they had paid any attention to Manny's televised appeal. More likely, they simply conceded that they were outnumbered. They had been punished on the spot for their foolishness. Jansen's nose was bleeding, and Boyd was holding his left elbow, which had been surgically repaired twice already in his career. Bob Erickson's calming voice could be heard praising Manny for his peacekeeping skills.

"Your guy's really something," I told Jessie. Tommy gave me a sidelong glance. About time he noticed me, I thought.

Boyd and Jansen disappeared from the left side of the screen. I hoped they would eventually show up on the right side, but first they would have to make their way through the long underground tunnel connecting the two clubhouses. If they had any sense, they would rejoin their teammates as fast as they could and apologize for failing to represent them in a civilized manner.

That didn't seem to be happening, so Manny continued to address the news media in his nearly perfect, slightly accented English. He took pride in being bilingual, having settled in Miami as a pre-teenager with his immigrant family and having attended high school and college there. Many teammates who were more recent arrivals to the United States had benefited from his willingness to translate and ease their transition in other ways. Watching him now, I reflected that he was a team leader. All the more reason Carter would be a fool to let him go.

"If you'll excuse me now," he said, "my fiancée and her family are waiting for me. And before I join them, I need to put in a call to my son, Bobby. He's four years old and just beginning to understand everything. He's with my parents in northern Virginia."

Manny smiled into the camera, showing off his dimples and warm, brown eyes. I saw traces of a goatee under his lip, the facial hair tending to come and go with his hitting streaks or slumps.

He's a sly one, I thought, always giving interviewers the kind of personal information they crave. His story was popular with the fans. It had many inspiring touches: the courageous family of six that had fled communist Cuba when he was a boy; the family's struggle to establish itself in a new country; the troubled first marriage, which had complicated his ascent to baseball stardom; the beautiful reporter who had known him since his college days, decided to pursue him for a story, and ended up falling in love; and most dramatic of all, the rescue of his young son from the clutches of an alcoholic, mentally disturbed ex-wife.

The camera followed Manny as he left the Busters clubhouse, whipping out his cell phone. Jessie closed her laptop and sighed. I shared her sense of relief. After the emotional highs and lows of this day, it was time to unwind with a nice dinner. We continued to watch the TV monitor, but soon we agreed that the prolonged Keys clubhouse celebration was getting tiresome. I grabbed the opportunity to take an overdue bathroom break.

Confronting my image in the long mirror, I frowned. I straightened my skirt, smoothing out the wrinkles as best I could, and applied some powder and rouge to my pale face. How did Jessie manage to keep her tan well into October? And how had she stayed so fresh and sleek-looking in that sky blue dress? I fluffed up my hair, which had lost its curl in the late-season humidity—unlike Jessie's, which seemed to have as much body as ever.

Christ, I told myself, cut it out. But I couldn't help thinking back to the time when Jessie and I were child models for Dad's advertising agency. We had been perfect for that purpose: two equally cute little girls, one blonde and one brunette. There had been no eruptions of jealousy between us, as far as I could remember. But maybe it had already begun in subtle ways.

Interrupting this train of thought, I applied eye shadow and a little mascara for Tommy's benefit. Since tonight was a special occasion, maybe we could have a nice time in spite of the way things had been going lately. But when I returned to the suite, everything looked exactly the way I had left it. Tommy still had his computer open, evidently rereading his day's work.

"What's keeping Manny?" I asked. "Is he still being interviewed?"

"No, he couldn't be," said Jessie. "He texted me as he was leaving the clubhouse, saying he was done with that. But I guess he got involved in talking to his folks or Bobby. He should be here in a few minutes."

Dad started to pace again. After a while, he said with some annoyance, "I think if Manny doesn't get here in fifteen minutes or so, we should call the Palm and push back our reservations to eight thirty."

By the time the fifteen minutes were up, the TV monitor had gone dark. Cleaning crews had replaced the crowd in the stands, and ground crews were working the field. The game had ended ninety minutes ago. Tommy finally closed his computer and looked around the suite with a perplexed expression. Jessie plucked her cell phone out of her purse and speed-dialed Manny's number. "Hi, baby. Can you pick up?" She paused, evidently getting no answer. "Well, I don't want to rush you, but—we're all getting hungry. Please hurry."

She had spoken calmly, but she looked unsettled to me. "You know how friendly Manny is," I offered. "He could have stopped to talk to someone—anyone—and lost track of time. Even a bathroom attendant or one of the cleaning crew."

"Or a hot ball girl," said Tommy.

I looked daggers at him and almost blurted, "Don't judge Manny by your own standards," but I said nothing.

"It's not like him to be this late without calling or texting me," said Jessie. She waited a minute or two and then tried his cell phone number again, still without success. She dropped the phone on the table with a clatter.

"He never does this." She began twirling one of her locks violently.

No one else seemed to know what to say. Our hunger had long since given way to annoyance. And as the minutes kept crawling by, that feeling turned to fear. Where in hell was Manny?

* * * * *

### Chapter Two

A well-known person does not disappear into thin air. That was the common-sense admonition of every law enforcement official who became involved in the search for Manny as the first anguished days unfolded. We heard it first from the guards at the ballpark, and later from the chief of police for the District of Columbia. There had to be a logical explanation.

Stadium security personnel admitted to being temporarily distracted at the critical time by the unruly fans who had stormed the field after the game. Still, they established that Manny had last been seen by several teammates as he'd left the Busters clubhouse and strolled into the tunnel, cell phone in hand. He had finished his conversation in Spanish with his parents and his son and closed the phone as he waited for an elevator to take him to the suite level. He got in—and vanished.

An hour after my family and I should have been drowning our baseball sorrows at the Palm, we were instead going over the known facts with ballpark security. My parents, my husband, and I stood by as Jessie, still fairly calm, interrogated the head of the detail, accompanied by Hoss and several other guards.

"Am I right that there was diminished security on the suite level for at least thirty minutes while several of you went down to the field to attend to a few drunken fans?" she asked.

"It may have been about thirty minutes that we were understaffed on this floor."

"Then what was to prevent unauthorized persons from breaching the area? For all you know, a gang accosted Manny in the elevator on his way up here, or even after he got off. They could have hustled him all the way down to the parking level and stuffed him into a waiting car."

"It isn't logical, ma'am. We have the parking lots secured—although it's true that detail was also undermanned after the game. There was a report of vandalism against several players' vehicles. Not Mr. Chavez's Mercedes, though. That's still where he left it, undamaged."

"And yet there was practically an army occupying the top floor earlier in the day, because Deirdre Smith and her husband were there," observed Jessie.

"Members of the president's family have their own private details, ma'am. That was not a distraction for us, if that's what you're implying."

"Even so, it seems to me," said Jessie, her voice now barely controlled, "you were everywhere except where you were really needed."

Hoss faced Jessie down once again. "Personally, miss, if I wasn't so busy trying to keep people like you out of the owner's suite, maybe I could be stopping some serious bad guys."

"We don't know yet that Mr. Chavez was abducted," put in his supervisor. "He might have left on his own."

"I'd like to speak with Mr. Carter, now," returned Jessie.

The head of security reported that Mr. Carter had left the stadium but would be informed soon that Mr. Chavez was "unaccounted for." If this remained unchanged for twenty-four hours, the District police would be alerted. The best thing for us to do now was to go home and wait by the phone. We might hear from Manny or someone who had information on his whereabouts. It might also be advisable to contact Manny's parents and his agent.

Two guards rode the elevator with us down to the parking level and then left us to cope. We all seemed confused as we took leave of each other. Tommy looked at me with more feeling than I had seen for a long time. "Take your sister home in my car and stay with her," he advised. We kissed, and Tommy left to flag down a cab.

Mom and Dad, about to depart in their own car, looked at us uncertainly. Dad stumbled when he offered, "Jess, sweetheart, try to take it easy. Manny will turn up."

Mom added, "He's come through some dicey situations before."

"I know that." Jessie seemed to have gone numb. "Thanks."

I drove Jessie to her one-bedroom apartment in Silver Spring. It was a silent forty-five-minute trip. When we got there, I opened two cans of chicken noodle soup while she phoned Manny's parents and his agent. I cleared manuscripts and newspapers from the dining room table to give us room to eat. We almost choked on the soup—Mom's cure for every malady, but a disturbing contrast to the dinner we'd had planned at the Palm.

Jessie was teary eyed and uncommunicative at first as she stirred her soup. Gradually, she forced some down and began to ruminate. "If we don't know any more by tomorrow morning, I think I'll ask Rafael and Juanita to move in here with me and bring little Bobby. We'll all need the moral support."

I looked around the apartment, which had always struck me as more of an office than a home. How would Jessie make room for her future in-laws and stepson? "Maybe you should move in with them, not vice versa."

Jessie grimaced at me, although I hadn't really meant it as a jibe. The first thing Manny had done, on signing a substantial contract four years ago, had been to buy a comfortable house in Vienna, Virginia, for his hard-working, blue-collar parents. Since Rafael and Juanita often took care of his son, he lived there himself when he wasn't here with Jessie or on the road. He had also helped his two brothers and his sister with sizable real estate purchases.

Manny and Jessie were to be married in November but had yet to make a similar arrangement for themselves. They had planned, after they came back from their Hawaii honeymoon, to remain temporarily in this tiny, untidy love nest. By contrast, Tommy and I had owned a house for three years, located farther uptown in Silver Spring. At almost thirty years old, Jessie and I still practiced our adolescent one-upmanship, and I had beaten her to home ownership.

"I know what you're thinking, Randi," said Jessie with an attempt at a smile, "but this isn't just an office. For one thing, the bedroom is real cozy and comfortable. This is the first place Manny will call—as soon as he can."

"What did his parents say?" I asked.

Jessie swallowed hard. "Their first reaction was that the ex must be behind this somehow. Christian, his agent, had the same thought."

I knew the ex, Guadalupe, was a force to be reckoned with and had powerful allies. But could she have snatched Manny back at this late date, so close to his remarriage? And why?

"Isn't she living permanently in Cuba?" I asked.

"That's what I thought."

"I know Rafael and Juanita are the ones who insisted Manny marry her instead of you after college," I said gingerly, not wanting to add to Jessie's pain. "I guess they've come around since then?"

She looked at me blankly. "They've been wonderful to me ever since Manny and I got engaged."

I can barely remember how we got through the night. We watched some TV, just to confirm that Manny's disappearance had not yet made the news. It was downright macabre to see his face pop up on the sports report, delivering his lecture on losing with dignity. At some point Jessie turned off the TV and told me to take her bed. She said she would sleep on the couch, if she slept at all.

•

Late the next day, the DC police called on us, beginning a marathon of interviews that lasted more than a week. Soon the FBI got involved with Jessie, and a temporary news blackout was lifted. The story was all over both local and national news, but Jessie and I avoided it as best we could. We were dimly aware that the start of the World Series between the Florida Keys and New York Broadways had been postponed for several days while the teams took steps to beef up security for their players. I took a few days off from my job at the Department of Homeland Security to help law enforcement grasp what they called "the big picture."

Three days after Manny's disappearance, I met with Detectives Washington and Byrd, a man-and-woman, black-and-white team, at DC police headquarters. I sat in an uncomfortable wooden chair in front of Washington's piled-up desk, feeling claustrophobic from the small office with its too-bright lights and the distracting sounds coming from the corridor. I got off to a bad start by spilling coffee on one of Washington's files. He grimaced as he refilled my cup. I could only hope he didn't read too much into my nervousness.

The evident chemistry between the two detectives intrigued me, although that didn't lessen my distress. Washington prodded Byrd, with an odd little half smile, to take the lead at the start. She asked if I thought the recent relationship between Manny and Jessie, with their wedding looming, had been harmonious.

"More than harmonious," I replied. "I'd say it's pretty much made in heaven."

Their only regret since they'd been engaged, I expanded, was the time they had lost. Manny and Jessie had met almost a decade ago at the University of Florida, where he was a star baseball and football player and she was a sportswriter for the student newspaper. They had felt a strong attraction then, but Manny was pressured by his family to go through with a semi-arranged marriage to Guadalupe, an ambitious winner of local beauty pageants who once had aspired to be the first Cuban-born Miss America.

After the birth of their son, however, the marriage had crumbled. Her drinking and volatile temper were bad enough, but her fundamental insanity became plain when she began denouncing the wealthy lifestyle that Manny's success promised and conceived a plan to return to the worker's paradise that Castro and his successors had built.

Was I talking too much? Unsure of what they were looking for, I proceeded to expand even more. "I know there's been a news story recently about a man who faked his own kidnapping to get out of his wedding. But if that's what you're thinking, you're way off. Manny and Jessie can't wait to get married and settle down."

Then Detective Byrd startled me by asking, "How do you feel about Manny yourself?"

"I think he's great." God, I thought, I sound like an adolescent with a crush.

"Do you like him?"

"Of course I like him," I said. "What's not to like?"

I had to stop and collect myself. "I'm not sure what you mean by liking him," I resumed. "He's very attractive to women baseball fans, and quite a few have hit on him. But I haven't, if that's what you're getting at. He's totally devoted to my sister, and I'm happily married."

I unclasped my hands to give the detectives a look at my wedding band. Then I tried to get them off this strange track. "Look, I wish nothing but happiness for Manny and my sister, even if their love story leaves mine in the dust."

Had I really said that? They glanced at one another. Then Detective Byrd asked me if Jessie and I were competitive.

"Why do you ask?" I paused, feeling the sweat come out on my forehead. "Am I a suspect?"

"Of course not, Mrs. Stone, nothing like that. Please bear with us. We're just trying to get the big picture."

"Please understand," Washington cut in, "at this point, we're not even sure it's a crime we're investigating. We only know that Mr. Chavez is missing. Your sister, Ms. Austen, has told us it would be out of character for him to disappear without a word. Still, anything we can find out about his state of mind, as well as those of the people around him, could be relevant."

"I understand," I said.

But as they continued to probe my relationship with Jessie, I was tempted to ask if they were studying to be shrinks. I found myself explaining how the natural competitiveness between most sisters was more intense than usual for us, and not only because we were twins. It had probably begun, I said, with our father's advertising agency using us occasionally as child models. We had joined the drama clubs at school, tried out for plays, aspired to be screenwriters. We had made a few short films together for arts credit in high school, and in our wildest moments had talked of starting our own film production company.

I gave the detectives a brief sketch of our past as their questions sent me reeling into my memories. I reflected that even when we were children, Jessie had a fire in her belly that I'd lacked. Most of the local sports teams were clients of Dad's agency, and we often had good seats for games. I enjoyed being close to the field at DC stadium, where our old baseball team had played, because I could catch an occasional foul ball. Jessie, meanwhile, would lean over the rail, trying to make eye contact with the players. After the game, she pursued them for autographs, while I tagged along, embarrassed by her persistence.

As freshmen at the University of Maryland, I explained, our differences became more obvious. I majored in English and published poems in the literary magazine. She majored in journalism and became notorious for investigating campus scandals and getting her exposés featured in the student newspaper.

"Were you jealous of that notoriety?" asked Byrd.

"Not jealous, exactly," I said, "but I did sort of trigger her first major crusade when I joined a sorority. At first she just made fun of what she called my 'social pretensions.' Then she launched an investigation into shady financial practices throughout the Greek system. It turned out that the officers of my club were among the guilty parties who were plundering the treasuries entrusted to them."

"Did you resent Jessie for going after a system you were part of?" asked Byrd.

"Maybe a little, at the time," I admitted.

In fact, I had warned my sorority sisters that they should clean up their acts and account for the missing funds, or my real sister would nail them. But the president and treasurer were embroiled in a love triangle with the football team's captain, a dicey situation that demanded all of their time and energy. I managed to quit the sorority and get out of Dodge before the investigation resulted in the suspension of the club's charter.

"But that was only the beginning of Jessie's college career," I continued. "She claimed the Greek system was small potatoes to her. It was a much bigger deal when she targeted the football program. She led a team of reporters that uncovered all sorts of abuses going on—recruiting, academic, social. The head coach was fired at the end of the season, even though he had a winning record. That's when Jessie became a marked woman at Maryland."

I explained that Jessie had then transferred to the University of Florida for her junior and senior years and continued to rack up journalistic credits. For some reason I couldn't discern at first, she began to study Spanish. Once, when she was home on holiday, I asked her if she were getting too close to one of her subjects. She said she was, but he was engaged, and probably nothing could come of it.

"But when she came home after graduation," I said, "I could tell her heart was broken. She opened up to me about Manny, but she wouldn't really let me or anybody else help her get over him. Meanwhile, I married Tommy, my college boyfriend, after he finished law school. Jessie was at my side as maid of honor that day, and I could feel her sadness. I started my career as a budget analyst for the federal government, but I could never get her interested in applying for openings like that. Tommy and I tried to fix her up with some of his legal buddies, but she either acted disinterested during blind dates or refused to go at all. My parents were awfully worried by her refusal to do anything conventional, in either her career or her social life. They had to help pay the rent on her apartment while she was freelancing as a journalist. Then, after about three years of that, she decided to plunge all of her savings and energy into launching an online sports magazine with three partners."

I caught my breath at this point, when I realized I had been reliving the time when my sister had had every reason to be jealous of me. How times have changed, I thought. Mom and Dad, who were once convinced Jessie was throwing away her life, had been beside themselves with pride in her as they took in the atmosphere of a stadium luxury box.

"Well, I'm sure you've heard of the magazine," I resumed. "It's called _Play Ball_ , and it's made waves and hefty profits both online and in print. And incidentally, Jessie never stopped studying Spanish. She said bilingual skills helped her with interviews."

Then I got to the memorable September day when, out of the blue, Manny got back in touch with my sister. He had established himself with the Washington Filibusters, but Jessie had avoided him. At the time of his contact, however, he was taking a leave of absence from the team to embark on a hazardous mission that could wait no longer. If Jessie wanted it, she could have the exclusive story from his point of view. His estranged wife, Guadalupe, had fled to Cuba, taking their young son. He wanted her treachery exposed. But he also wanted Jessie to know that his marriage had been a mistake from the start.

Manny had been determined to retrieve his son, no matter how perilous the journey. He had the backing of the U.S. State Department, and a Naval detachment in the Caribbean would be put on alert. Jessie had agreed to write about his mission—if it ended successfully. Needless to say, it did. Manny returned with Bobby, proving to the world that individual daring, backed up by force, could prevail even in a "worker's paradise." Jessie wrote the story with creative flair and reborn joy. In one blow, she had acquired a journalistic reputation and a fiancé.

I was sure I had said enough by now to convince these detectives that I was jealous as hell of my sister. Who wouldn't envy a love story like that? Jessie and I were the quintessential twenty-first-century women who wanted it all. Personal fulfillment and professional success were equally essential to us. But if Washington and Byrd thought I was secretly in love with my future brother-in-law or that I would intentionally undermine Jessie's relationship, I knew I must set them straight.

I was trying to find the words to express this when a shriek from the corridor made me almost spill my coffee again. Two police officers were dragging a scantily dressed woman in handcuffs down the hall. Her wild eyes met mine for an instant and focused as if she knew me. My God, I thought, how did I land in this place, with people like her, when just days ago I was hobnobbing with DC elites?

The detectives waited a moment as I composed myself. Then Washington suddenly took charge. Giving me a cold stare, he demanded, "Are you personally acquainted with any of Manny's teammates?"

I recoiled in surprise. "I don't get into the clubhouse like my sister does, with her all-powerful press pass. So I don't really hang out—"

"Your husband has mentioned your acquaintance with at least two Filibusters players other than Manny."

Damn Tommy, I thought. What a time to start airing our dirty linens. "It's true, my husband and I have run into Petie Jansen and Wilson Boyd a few times at a—a shooting range," I admitted.

"Where's this shooting range located?" asked Washington.

"It's the local affiliate of the Tex Belton League, near Upper Marlboro, Maryland."

Both detectives' brows shot up, as if they wondered what I could have been doing at a place like that. The late Tex Belton had founded a movement that combined strong advocacy of the Second Amendment with an almost mystical environmentalism. Humanity, he believed, was obligated to exert a benevolent influence over nature through constant, judicious hunting and fishing. Further, Belton had been a political ally of the current president since Smith's early days as a Virginia congressman. Belton had also been a lobbyist for the meat industry, and no doubt a hearty meat eater. He had died a few years ago, in his mid-sixties, of a heart attack.

"My husband's a card-carrying member of the League," I offered. "I just go there as a guest."

Should I explain, I wondered, that Tommy objected to our having children until I developed some prowess with firearms? The day would come, he now believed, when we would be called upon to protect those children with deadly force. The approaching enemy in Tommy's mind was hazy, as yet, and took on various forms. It might turn out to be illegal immigrants overrunning all social services, or criminals preying on us because out-of-control liberals had stripped law-abiding citizens of their weapons. He would never surrender his own willingly. No government, he insisted, could be trusted to protect individual rights.

The detectives didn't ask me to spell out my husband's political views. Instead, they probed our relationship with Boyd and Jansen. How often did we see them at the shooting range? Were they always together? Did we see them anywhere else? Were the four of us good friends? Was I particularly friendly with either one?

They're on to me, I thought. Then: so what? Was it a crime to know Wilson and Petie? It occurred to me that those two must have been asked to account for their whereabouts at the time Manny went missing. They had not been in either the Keys or the Busters clubhouse, but somewhere in between. Did the police really think they might have done something to Manny? And what did that have to do with me?

"Have you ever heard either one say he hated Manny?" asked Washington.

"Everybody who follows the team knows there are conflicts," I protested. "The rednecks sometimes clash with the Hispanics, and Boyd and Jansen happen to be really vocal about it. It's just too bad it had to come out after the championship series loss. Manny practically dressed those two down on national television."

"I'm not talking about what happened on television," said Washington. "I want your own take on this, Mrs. Stone. In the course of your personal relationship, have you ever heard either Wilson Boyd or Petie Jansen make a threatening remark against Manny?"

"A specific threat? No." Prodded by Washington's intense eyes, I stopped and thought. These cops weren't about to let me dodge the question. Could I give them what they were after without exposing my own compromising behavior?

"Wilson and Petie are proud of being good ol' boys," I resumed. "They spout off, especially when they've been drinking. Both of them have suggested—even to Manny's face—that he should get back on whatever leaky boat brought him here, go home and take a bunch of his immigrant buddies with him. But that's just trash talk. They do it mostly to be funny or to needle people. Nobody takes their act seriously—well, most people don't."

"Maybe they don't," said Washington, "but that isn't what I asked you, Mrs. Stone. I asked if you ever heard either Boyd or Jansen express views like that in private."

"Sure, but they're not exactly deep thinkers," I said. "When they're riled up, they blame all the team's problems on what they call—excuse my language—the 'swarming spics.' And I've heard them question the manhood of Hispanics who spend all their free time with their families or going to Mass, instead of hunting or hitting the bars. But it seems to me that's a cultural difference."

"Maybe so," said Washington. "Would you say one of them spouts off like that more than the other?"

I pondered the question. Boyd had the louder mouth of the two. In fact, he had one of the loudest mouths in all of baseball. His high-pitched bellowing at teammates and opponents could often be heard over the airwaves. He directed much of his temper at Manny because of their long squabble over their relative positions with the Busters. His habit was to scream at Manny one moment and put his arm around him the next. He had proposed to teach Manny hunting and fishing and film the lessons for his semi-regular show on the Outdoor Channel. When Manny turned down the offer, he called him a sissy, and then he laughed when Manny threatened to take exception to that with his fists. He proposed play dates between his four-year-old son and Manny's, with the honest intention of teaching them to be "all boy."

I was unsure how much of this detail to explain to the detectives. Finally, I settled on, "Wilson Boyd is pretty uninhibited. He never says anything in private that he wouldn't tell the whole world."

"Not even about disliking Manny?" asked Byrd.

"Actually, underneath his bluster, I think he likes Manny. He pretty much likes everybody." I felt myself growing flushed as I contemplated the loudmouth with the surprisingly gentle smile, who flirted harmlessly with me whenever we met at the shooting range. He was the kind of man who aged well, somehow growing sexier as his waistline expanded and his hairline receded.

Why did I get so hot and bothered at the thought of Wilson Boyd? Petie was better looking than Wilson any day, with that full head of curly, blonde hair and his muscular body. He was also more available, having never gotten around to marrying the mother of his two kids.

"And what about Jansen?" asked Washington, breaking into my short reverie.

"What about him?"

"Has he said anything about Manny in your hearing that he wouldn't let others hear?"

"Only stupid stuff," I said. "Just cultivating his redneck persona. Like, 'If it was up to me, I'd send all the spics back to wherever they came from. And it could happen, someday soon.'"

The detectives' eyes glowed. I caught my breath, realizing I had given them a hint of what they wanted. They probably wouldn't care all that much if they found out what I had been driven to do because of my husband's roving eye and my womanly need for some special attention. They might overlook Jansen's crude jibe about "sending the spics back," because he also had been known to say it to Manny's face. But what about "it could happen soon"?

Washington asked me if I thought there was a movement afoot at the Belton League to harass or attack Hispanics.

"As far as I know," I declared, breathing normally again, "there's nothing behind what Petie said. It was just drunken rambling."

•

When the detectives were through with me, I returned to Jessie's apartment, where I stayed for a few days to lend her support as her interviews continued. I checked in frequently with my parents and Tommy, and she did the same with Manny's parents. I spent hours reflecting on how things had come to this pass. When had my marriage become such a cesspool that I'd begun making bigger messes outside of it? How had I become attracted to two men whose politics offended me even more than my husband's—and who might be persons of interest in a possible kidnapping? Was their animal magnetism enough to turn my head?

There was also a new feeling of discomfort with my sister. I had always tried to view our competitiveness as a positive force, spurring us along our divergent but equally energetic paths. Now I wondered if jealousy had corroded my nature and clouded my perception. I had never envisioned any harm coming to her or Manny due to our sibling rivalry. But had I ignored a gathering storm?

I asked Jessie why she thought the authorities were so interested in Boyd and Jansen. She eyed me warily—a habit of hers—and told me what she had heard about their stories. Boyd had returned to the Busters clubhouse shortly after the time Manny probably disappeared. He was groggy and sporting a large bump on his head. He admitted that he and Petie had gotten into a fight of their own, after the altercation in the Keys clubhouse.

Petie had been in a rage over Manny's televised remarks directed toward the two of them. "I'm gonna get that fucker," he yelled, whipping out his cell phone. Boyd didn't know whom Jansen planned to call, but he tried to grab the phone and ended up getting pummeled. When he came to, Jansen was nowhere in sight. He had left the ballpark, and no one had seen him leave.

The next day, Jansen told the police he had gone straight home, using the cell phone on his way out to call a girlfriend and let off some steam. The police asked to see the phone, but he had misplaced it. He was always losing cell phones, he said. He was apologetic about his altercation with Boyd and hadn't realized he had knocked him out. He explained that fisticuffs between him and his buddy could erupt suddenly, especially when they had lost a big ballgame and had a few drinks afterward.

Was it possible these unruly friends of mine, Boyd and Jansen, had something to do with Manny's disappearance? I even asked myself if I had liked them all the more _because_ Jessie disliked and mistrusted them so much. These issues kept pounding my brain for two agonizing weeks. Then Manny's weary face exploded on the news, as one of his captors made contact.

•

The woman who claimed to have Manny in her grip displayed a plaintive voice and cold eyes. Jessie and I were more confused than angry as we watched her ransom message several times, switching between cable news channels. We conceded she was still a beauty, with her long, flowing black hair serving to counteract a slightly bloated and dissipated look. She was trying to cultivate the dignity of an aspiring first lady even as she exploited the role of grieving mother. Who was the real Guadalupe?

She said she still loved and respected Manny, and she apologized to his fiancée for disrupting their plans. It was not her intention to stop his second marriage, but simply to remind him of some unfinished business. Nor had she planned his abduction, she claimed. Even though he had done her the unspeakable injury of stealing her child, she would have preferred to keep their dealings private. But the state had taken it out of her hands, labeling Manny the aggressor in his actions against both her and the Cuban government. It was that government's policy to respond to aggression with equal force.

Her speech ended with the promise that Manny was being treated as an honored guest in the presidential palace and was in good health. He had been sedated during the kidnapping but not otherwise harmed. A still picture of him seemed to confirm this. I almost admired Guadalupe's audacity, although I questioned her sanity.

We knew the FBI was trying to piece together how the abduction had been carried out. They were investigating known Cuban fronts and questioning officials at the Cuban embassy. Could one of these groups have connections that reached all the way into the ballpark?

"I hate to point this out," I said, "but Guadalupe was going for sympathy, and her message might resonate with some people."

"Like who?" demanded Jessie.

"Recovering addicts, maybe," I said. "She's claiming she didn't get a fair shake with the court that awarded Manny full custody of little Roberto—little Bobby. That she fled with the child to Cuba out of desperation."

"She broke the law when she did that," said Jessie. "At least, U.S. law."

I wasn't about to argue that point with Jessie. But I reflected on the feat that Manny had pulled off in managing to enter the country and literally snatch Bobby away from Guadalupe directly in front of the presidential palace. He had given the slip to the Cuban guards, and he'd made it to a U.S. warship that just happened to be patrolling the area. It was great stuff for Jessie's article, but it humiliated Guadalupe and showed up her new love, the heir apparent to the president of Cuba.

"She lost custody," said Jessie in that barely controlled voice I knew well, "because she had a history of neglecting the child while she was strung out on liquor and probably dope. She compounded that by acting like the court was beneath her. She's fighting back now because she sees an opportunity to set herself up as the national heroine of Cuba. That's what's behind her sudden urge to play Mommy."

Jessie's voice broke when she spoke of Bobby, and my heart ached for her. I believed her when she said she had shown the timid little boy more love as his prospective stepmom than his real mother ever had. "That woman is screwing the probable future president of Cuba and intends to marry him. She'd like to have Bobby back as a chip to play in that game. The guy already has four kids with his discarded wife and is no doubt gunning for more. Once Guadalupe solidifies her position, she'll stick Bobby away in a back room of that godforsaken palace, surround him with sycophants, and raise him to be a good little red soldier like the others."

"I know all that, Jess," I said, massaging my sister's shoulder as she gave way to tears for the first time. "All I'm saying is, tonight she was a pretty good actress. Maybe even good enough to convince some people _she's_ the wronged party."

"Christ, even her accent is phony," burst out Jessie. "She speaks English as well as Manny does. She's a U.S. citizen, like him. She's trying to pass herself off as a poor foreigner who got duped by the American legal system. What a cheap ploy."

Jessie buried her face in her hands. "The woman's a psycho. She couldn't care less about her kid. It's Manny she's out to destroy, Manny and me. And she's bewitched a nation into supporting her."

I urged my sister not to lose heart, but I found myself overcome by the horror of it all. I smothered her in an impulsive hug and told her to just hold on to me.

When I went home to Tommy that night, we didn't talk much, but we made love with more verve than we had felt for at least a year. I guess we found it exciting as well as scary to be on the periphery of a great national drama. Though I was back home, I made sure I was available to talk to Jessie whenever a major new development occurred.

The day after Guadalupe's address, President Smith reacted to the kidnapping in a televised press conference. Jessie called that evening, terrified that he had gone too far. The president, visibly angry, had thrown over his usual caution and spoken passionately about this affront to both common decency and American sovereignty. He addressed some of his remarks directly to "Little Castro," although the current president of Cuba went by the name Ramirez. No foreign dictator, Smith declared, would get away with holding the American legal system hostage.

Prodded by the journalists' questions, he grew testier. "Maybe when _el presidente_ gets around to returning my call, we can settle this matter like civilized leaders." When asked why he used the epithet "Little Castro," he blurted, "It's just that I get impatient with tyranny right at our doorstep. How many more brothers or nephews or cousins of the original Castro are waiting to be dredged up and 'elected' president before the Cuban people finally get a taste of freedom?"

Asked if he considered the kidnapping an act of war, Smith responded, "If we find out this was a commando operation carried out on our soil by a foreign power—all I can say is, we have a way of responding to such provocation. It's called shock and awe." This statement produced audible gasps.

"Did Smith declare war on Cuba today?" Jessie asked me on the phone. "Did he make Manny a prisoner of war? A sitting duck who could be executed in retaliation for any attack?"

"Come on, you know that's not what Guadalupe wants," I said. "She's still in love with Manny. I know that's a sickening thought, but it may keep him alive."

Tommy, sitting across the dinner table from me, urged me to reassure my sister. "Smith's in cowboy mode right now, because that's what the press and the public want to hear. Tomorrow he'll back off the 'shock and awe' bit and start figuring out some backdoor channel to pay off the Cuban bastards. Manny'll be home in a week or two."

"Tommy thinks Ramirez is just looking for a payoff," I told Jessie. "I think he might want some respect more than anything. He's never been invited to the White House, not even when Smith was hosting other Caribbean leaders. His feelings must be hurt."

"A cowboy and a crybaby have my fiancé's life in their hands. Wonderful." Jessie's composure held, but barely.

"All of the Cuban dictators have been fanatics about baseball," continued Tommy. "I've been thinking Johnson Carter should get involved in the negotiations with Ramirez. He could try offering him season tickets to the owner's suite at the ballpark. Or even a stake in the co-owner's group."

I passed this on to Jessie, who found the suggestion ridiculous, said a hasty good-bye, and hung up.

During a press briefing the next day, the president's spokesman toned down the rhetoric. He insisted that Smith had not intended to threaten Cuba with immediate military action. On the contrary, he was extending an offer to negotiate and would await Mr. Ramirez's response.

While the dictator was taking several days to ponder this, we sweated through the silence. Tommy and I tried to reassure Jessie that this delay was to be expected from a nation unaccustomed to receiving diplomatic overtures from its "bully" neighbor. Jessie didn't buy it. "I feel like we're gambling on the sanity of two crazy leaders," she reiterated.

Awaiting news, Jessie stayed in her apartment. She was in touch with her partners at the magazine, and she continued to talk on the phone with Manny's parents and Bobby. Mom and Dad kept her supplied with groceries and coaxed her to eat. She told me she spent hours at her computer, writing a free-form diary to vent her feelings. Sometimes she wrote all night, mostly to avoid the nightmares that assailed her whenever she closed her eyes. She rarely dreamed that Manny would die at his captors' hands. More often she envisioned him coming home altered, or choosing not to come home at all.

Finally, Ramirez announced that he would address both nations on November 15—Manny and Jessie's scheduled wedding date. I tried to pass off the timing as a coincidence, but Jessie called it "a kick in the teeth." One cable news channel consented to carry the entire speech. Fearing bad news, Tommy and I tried to persuade Jessie to watch it with us. She refused, insisting she could handle it better alone.

•

As the speech unfolded, I wondered if the Cuban president's words might prove too much even for my brave sister. Only an announcement of Manny's execution would have been worse. The pauses necessitated by the translation made it doubly grating.

"I have been in communication with officials of the United States government about Mr. Chavez's situation. I must say, I'm deeply insulted by the bribe that has been offered for his safe return, as if my principles were for sale ... I assure everyone on both sides that this is not a matter to be resolved with mere dollars."

Tommy and I tensed up as Ramirez became more emphatic. "I'm not surprised, however, that the Americans are trying as usual to throw money at a problem without considering the human factors. In this case, it's a grieving mother whose ex-husband, even at this moment, remains obstinate on the custody issue ... The U.S. government is treating his detention here as a kidnapping for ransom. But I'm here to tell them, that is a shortsighted view ... This is, in fact, a monumental clash of cultures and values. We may be a tiny, impoverished island in your eyes. But now we have an ace in the hole that will level the playing field." I almost laughed at the mixed metaphor and wondered if Ramirez had actually said that.

As Ramirez's remarks continued, they gave credence to Tommy's theory that he was an out-of-control baseball fan. A smile stole over the dictator's dark, stubbly face as he proclaimed, "I'm actually a great admirer of Manny Chavez, having followed his career from afar these past several years. But I have never stopped envisioning the ballplayer he should have been for the Cuban public. To them he's the ultimate greedy defector, beguiled by the so-called American dream into forsaking his homeland, becoming a typical American in his pursuit of big contracts at the expense of team loyalty. We have every right to take him back, since he's rightfully ours. This is not an abduction, but a rescue."

Ramirez then went into a rapture about the beauty of the game when it was played the Cuban way, with a passion for teamwork, strategy, and discipline. The American passion for getting rich from it had created monsters instead of teammates. "Therefore," he concluded, "a re-education of this superstar ballplayer is called for. And I alone will judge when the process is complete."

Jessie was on the phone with me immediately after the diatribe ended. "He's a lunatic," she shouted. "He'll never release Manny except by force. It'll take an invasion."

"Christ, Jessie," I said. "Slow down. The U.S. military has a few other priorities right now. Besides, ideas like that could get Manny killed."

"Can you think of any other way out?"

Strangely enough, I thought I knew where Ramirez was coming from. "What if Manny played a game or two with the Cuban national team? That would allow the dictator to make his point about teamwork, and at the same time it would get Manny out of whatever confinement he's in, at least briefly. Ramirez could then declare victory and end this nonsense—especially if Manny helped the Cubans win."

"I can't see Manny agreeing to a humiliation like that," said Jessie.

"You'd rather see him in the middle of a war zone than a Cuban ball field?"

Tommy, listening on my end, reiterated, "I still think Mr. Carter should offer Ramirez a small piece of the Filibusters. Just enough to make him feel like a baseball insider."

On hearing this advice, Jessie said, "Fat chance. Carter can barely even stand negotiating contracts with his Hispanic players. And since when has your husband advocated doing business with Communists?"

•

The following evening, as we were still trying to absorb the possibility of a long standoff, Jessie phoned and ordered me to turn on one of the cable sports channels. Javy Castilla, owner of the National League champion Florida Keys, who had lost the World Series to the New York Broadways in six games, was holding a press conference. Tommy and I listened in amazement as Castilla issued what sounded like a call to arms.

"We've tolerated this—this thorn in our ass way too long," he thundered. "And now we're seeing the result. Wasn't it bad enough we put up with the original Castro and his toady of a brother for what, forty-five years? We stood by as they choked off the aspirations of their own people and rattled sabers against their neighbors. At least they weren't dumb enough to attack us directly. But this numbskull of a cousin, or whatever he is, has picked a fight he can't possibly win. Maybe he's trying to become a martyr."

Castilla, pelted with questions from the reporters, disdained to answer any specific one. Instead he exclaimed, "Look, I know what the nitwit's thinking. He's outraged by this immigrant who has made a successful life for himself and his family in a free land. The very idea of Manny Chavez threatens his world view, his reason for living. No wonder he's desperate to reverse the American dream."

"Do you take it personally as a Mexican-American?" shouted a reporter.

"Hell yes, I take it personally. Manny Chavez is the ideal Hispanic athlete, the very essence of what hard work, talent, and a competitor's instincts can accomplish in this country. I say that with particular conviction because my team faced him recently in the National League Championship Series. We knew that would be a battle, because he's a fighter. I like to think I fit that mold myself."

Castilla's next declaration took my breath away. "That's why I'm using this forum today to reach out to my imprisoned brethren in Cuba. I'm sending this message to Manny and to every citizen in that blighted land who is starving for lack of opportunity. You may not hear me now, but I swear you will receive my message. I'm prepared to help you throw off the tyrant. I call on my friends in my adopted homeland—fellow baseball owners, fellow Hispanics, players, coaches, all lovers of freedom—to join me in this battle on behalf of the Cuban people. I want them to know that help is on the way. No matter what their illegitimate leader tells them, they have a right to enjoy the fruits of their own labor."

As the reporters tried to pin Castilla down on a specific plan of action, he waved off further questions and stalked out of the room.

I remembered Jessie was still on the phone when I heard her exclaim, "My God. What do you and Tommy think of this?"

"Sounds to me like Castilla would like to use Manny's abduction as an excuse to spark an anti-Communist insurgency in Cuba," I mused. "He's certainly rich enough to help fund a war."

Tommy jumped right on my theory. "Castilla might already know who the likely Cuban freedom fighters are. Maybe he even has a personal favorite who he'd like to install as the new president."

"Castilla has a military background," observed Jessie. "He joined the U.S. Air Force even before he became a citizen. He probably sees himself leading an invasion personally."

"If so, he's off his rocker," I said.

•

I repeated myself the following evening, when Jessie called again and directed us to another bellicose speech, this time on the obscure Outdoor Channel. Wilson Boyd, dressed in hunter's gear and hoisting a rifle—his usual pose on this show—praised Castilla's speech and professed himself gung-ho to join any organized effort to liberate Manny. "Meaning no offense to Mr. Castilla, but everybody knows Hispanics ain't really fighters as a rule. So if he's gonna organize a citizen's brigade or something to fight the Cubans, it's gotta be packed with down-and-dirty fighters. Rednecks and African-Americans, like us." He nudged his hunting partner for that episode, who happened to be a black friend of his.

As they prepared to hunt quail, Wilson kept talking up the theoretical invasion. "It'll be another Bay of Pigs. That'll scare the Commies shitless. Excuse my French."

Jessie and I couldn't help laughing. She said, "Maybe somebody should clue the idiot in about what actually happened to the Bay of Pigs invaders."

"I'm sure Wilson means well," I said. "And I suppose Mr. Castilla does, too. They're just living in some kind of dream world."

"I don't know if they mean well at all."

"What're you saying?" I asked.

Instead of answering, Jessie said she'd talk to me tomorrow and hung up. But just an hour or so later, she called back.

"I have a weird feeling about the last two televised speeches we've seen. They're just a little too ... gung-ho." She paused for so long that I thought she might have hung up again without elaborating.

"What kind of weird feeling?" I prodded.

"You know I've never trusted Boyd. I thought right from the start he might have something to do with Manny's disappearance. And now I'm starting to feel the same way about Castilla. I think both of them were involved."

* * * * *

### Chapter Three

By the next day, Jessie's list of suspects had grown into a huge conspiracy. Her tortured mind cooked up new angles every few minutes. When I asked her how she thought Javy Castilla and Wilson Boyd could have become entangled in the same plot, she said it was only a feeling she had, but a strong one.

I was startled when she questioned me about my husband's recent movements. She wanted to know what I had found in his briefcase lately.

"I've been avoiding the temptation to go in there," I said. "We've been getting along fairly well for the past few weeks, since this all started. I don't want to spoil the mood by spying on him."

Jessie put down her coffee cup, looked at me sadly, and apologized for interfering with my marriage. It was a lousy thing to do, she admitted, especially today. I was treating her to a Saturday morning breakfast at my house. We were sitting in the dining room, which was at least twice as large as the one in Jessie's apartment. A bright autumn sun poured through the window, casting a red glow on the wall from the leaves that still clung to the maple tree in the backyard. When I had pointed out that phenomenon, Jessie had just shrugged.

It was an opportunity for us to have a relaxed talk, since Tommy had gone out early to the shooting range. Jessie could not forget the letter from Madeline Carter that I had discovered in my earlier briefcase foraging. She wanted to know what I thought had drawn Madeline to Tommy. Was it simply that they were both members of the Tex Belton League, and Madeline admired his shooting style? I said that since the letter had discussed a job offer, she must think he was a good lawyer, as well.

"I'm not saying I think Madeline's a threat to your marriage," said Jessie, "but I gotta tell you, she worries me. Her father was about to send Manny packing from the Busters before this nightmare started."

"That was just business," I said, albeit unconvincingly.

The vastness of Jessie's conspiracy theory boggled my mind. Unable to get more than hopeful platitudes from the State Department contacts who were looking into the kidnapping, she was filling the void with her vivid imagination. It seemed to me she was ready to accuse half the free world of assisting the Cubans in their plot to torpedo her dream life with Manny.

"But why, Jess?" I asked. "Manny's a good guy, really well liked by almost everybody. Why would so many people want to hurt him—and you?"

"It may have begun at the top," she burst out. "Who knows? Chicken hawk commanders-in-chief like Smith are always looking for excuses to pick fights. They don't have to make sense."

"Now you're really getting hysterical," I told her.

"No, listen," she exclaimed, getting up and pacing as our dad often did when agitated. "Smith's opposition to any form of gun control whatsoever has empowered idiots like Wilson Boyd and Petie Jansen. Christ, those two probably spend as much time at shooting ranges as they do on ball fields. Militia movements have been growing all over the country, and those two are poster boys for the local version. They've infiltrated the Filibusters and the rest of Major League Baseball with their Neanderthal nonsense. I can imagine the Smith administration providing more than moral support to groups like those. They, in turn, are supporting Smith in his hateful efforts to keep out and send back immigrants—the kind of people who would never vote for him anyway."

"You've just made several leaps of logic," I said. "Why would homegrown militias want to do 'Little Castro's' bidding? They would make strange bedfellows, wouldn't they?"

"Very strange," Jessie admitted. "But I can see mutual benefits in a partnership like that. The militia boys, Boyd and Jansen, have at least one thing in common with Ramirez. They hate Manny."

"Come on, Jessie," I protested. "That's pretty extreme to say about Manny's teammates."

But Jessie kept raving, her theories embracing an ever-widening cast of characters. She periodically sat down and got up again, letting her breakfast get cold, as she went over the possible connections again. President Smith was a close friend and political ally of Johnson Carter, who had seemed determined at the end of the season to unload as many Hispanic players as he could. Carter's daughter, Madeline, was a friend of my husband and was talking him up for some sort of job in the family organization.

Javy Castilla, owner of the Florida Keys, had been at Carter's side during the final game, signaling an interest in Carter's Hispanic players. After Manny's kidnapping, Castilla had gone on television to rage against the perpetrators and announce his intention to make Cuba a free country, if his resources could do it. Wilson Boyd had publicly seconded the notion that military action might trump diplomacy in this case and that civilians might be organized to participate.

Boyd's diatribe in particular had enraged Jessie. "For all we know, that fucking loudmouth might have pulled the trigger that'll get Manny killed," she concluded.

We were waiting to see whether Ramirez would react to the latest saber rattling. What if Cuba actually could be freed with a few swift blows? The prospect of a newly liberated Caribbean island would delight many on Jessie's conspiracy list. It might allow Castilla to expand the base of his current ball club to take in Havana. And the rednecks would be overjoyed, especially if they had a hand in licking the "Commies."

"Christ, Jessie," I said. "We don't even know yet who carried out the abduction. Somebody had to be tracking Manny's movements when he walked out of the clubhouse that day. Somebody was waiting for him, either in the tunnel or on the elevator. Who plugged him with a needle and got him down to the parking lot? Who was driving the getaway car, and where'd they take him? How'd they get him out of the country?"

Jessie said those details were for the police to figure out. She could only try to grapple with the meaning of it all.

"While you're grappling with higher meanings," I said, "everybody in the world looks like a suspect to you." She was giving me that wary look again. "Including me, I suppose."

"Well," she said slowly, "you do seem to be shielding Tommy for some reason."

"Just because I'm tired of spying on him? And when did he become a suspect?"

"I didn't mean it that way," said Jessie. "You'll have to bear with me, Randi. I'm going crazy with anxiety."

I wasn't sure she didn't mean it, but there was nothing more I could say. How could I tell her it wasn't Tommy I was shielding, but someone else?

•

I had vowed to break up with Petie Jansen, to give my marriage every chance. With Thanksgiving approaching, I had hoped the family could go through the motions of being together, if nothing else. But when Petie called me on my cell phone around noon, shortly after Jessie left, I plunged into turmoil.

The rapprochement between Tommy and me was tenuous, and we were inclined to slip back into the old, tired pattern. On weekdays we were a married couple. We went to work, came home, had dinner; I cooked, he loaded the dishwasher. We talked, skirting the real issues. Later in the evening, he holed up in his office while I watched TV or fiddled with ideas for a screenplay. Once or twice I confided to him my difficulties in getting that project launched.

"You don't work at it enough," he would say, stating the obvious. He was certainly in a position to know how little time I had to be creative.

On the subject of the kidnapping, we had hit a brick wall. When I asked Tommy if he thought there was any chance that the United States would invade Cuba, he declared, "I hope to hell not. It's in everyone's best interest to work it out."

I still had the feeling Tommy knew something about the negotiations through his connection with the Carters, but when I asked him for specifics, he clammed up.

On weekends, we went our separate ways, like today. I had no idea when to expect him back from the Belton League. He had not taken enough ammunition to shoot all day. I suspected he would run into Madeline there and get in some target practice with her. Afterwards, perhaps they would go somewhere for lunch.

Why shouldn't I do the same? Petie's Kentucky-bred voice was making me hungry in more ways than one. "Hey, babe, I've missed you. Haven't seen you in months. I know a lot of shit has gone down lately. How you holding up?"

"Barely," I said. "Actually, it's been about five weeks. You stopped calling during playoff time."

"Yeah, well, sorry about that."

"I guess that's because you lost your cell phone." I paused. "Isn't that what you told the police?"

I prodded Petie to recall the story he had come up with the day after Manny had disappeared. Didn't he remember what he had supposedly done on his way out of the ballpark? Called a girlfriend to let off steam about Manny?

"Yep, that's what I did. Not only that, I punched out poor old Wilson for no good reason. Didn't think I could get so blotto on just champagne. Good thing he's an understanding dude."

"Who was she, Petie?" I felt a pang of jealousy, which distressed me.

He went silent for a moment. "Christ, how in hell should I remember? She musta been first up in my cellular Rolodex that day. When I'm in that tough shape, I ain't too particular about my choices."

"Just out of curiosity," I asked, "where am I in your Rolodex?"

"Number one, long as I'm thinking straight. Listen, why don't you mosey on over for lunch? I feel like indulging myself like a star athlete today, so I'm having it catered. We can sit by the indoor pool and jaw about any shit you like. Even Manny Chavez."

Unable to resist, I drove to Petie's house in MacLean, Virginia, arriving a little after one. I wondered what I was doing, but that didn't stop me. I always seemed to give in to my most irresponsible urges where Petie was concerned. Though this time, I told myself, I did have a purpose in mind. I thought it strange that Petie had not been questioned further about his actions on the day of the kidnapping. I also thought Jessie had gotten on the wrong track, fixating too much on Wilson Boyd's televised ranting, which to my mind merely proved that Wilson was incapable of hiding his feelings.

Petie and I ate lunch by the pool. If he were trying to seduce me with his celebrity lifestyle, he succeeded. The caviar hors d'oeuvres that were rolled in first made me queasy to look at, so I left them alone. But the grilled chicken salad with Caesar dressing and the freshly baked bread with whipped butter were much to my liking. Petie downed a few gin and tonics, while I had a glass of white wine and then switched to coffee. Best of all were the chocolate sundaes for dessert.

I felt lulled by the company, as well. Slipping into one of his expansive moods, Petie regaled me with tales of his rise from a hardscrabble Appalachian childhood, his often-abusive family, and his heroics in four sports as a scholarship boy at the state university. One of his long-range goals, he said, was to start a foundation to help poor mountain kids overcome tough childhoods like his. He was proud of what he had accomplished in his career, despite the many bad patches caused by his lack of a solid upbringing. During his reminiscences, he threw in tidbits of locker-room gossip from a few of the five major league teams he had played for in his eight-year professional baseball career.

I never knew how much of Petie's narrative to take literally. Newspaper reporters had verified the essential facts of his life, but he was not above exaggerating the details. I had heard the story of how, as a teenager, he had shot and nearly killed his older brother in an argument over a girl.

I brought up that tale now, in the interest of research. "You can tell me. What's the real reason you shot your brother?"

Petie grimaced. "Babe, believe me, I have my reasons for every stupid thing I do. Paulie Junior got out of control on rotgut one day, and I had little sisters to protect. He's a better man for it now, and he and I are okay. I bought him his own farm, and he works it pretty good, considering he only has one useable leg."

After this, as I expected, Petie asked me how my screenplay was going. He knew that I had been trying to concoct a script based loosely on his life. It had the makings of a unique love story, featuring a rough mountain man and a sophisticated city woman.

"What're you calling it now?" he asked with a chuckle.

I reminded him that one of his most impressive feats had been playing for both of the New York teams in a single baseball season. "How about _Lost in New York_?"

"I like it."

Growing reflective, Petie advised me not to portray him as an undiscriminating womanizer. "It's true I've known more than my fair share of chicks. And for some reason I tend to attract powerful ones. Don't really know why, since I can barely speak the Queen's English. Guess it's my animal magnetism that draws them in." He grinned at me, driving home this point.

"I've fooled around at high levels of society, where the games can get risky—especially once certain chicks find out about each other. But if I'm living dangerously, I'm just imitating my hero, President Smith. I hear he has an interesting sex life, too."

"Where'd you hear that?" I asked.

"Somebody pretty close to him told me, but that's all I'm gonna say about it. And I ain't gonna share every gory detail about my personal life either, okay? That shouldn't be the point of your screenplay, anyway."

"Then what should be the point?" I asked.

"That I know quality women when I see them." His grin softened into a rather sweet smile, and I was hooked once again.

Soon after lunch, Petie lured me into the bedroom and completed the seduction. During that passionate interval, we chased the clouds that hung over us. Afterward, I nestled in his arms, stealing another minute or two of illusory contentment. I glanced at the bedside picture of his two children, a girl of about seven and a boy two years or so younger. He hadn't told me much about them, except that he and their mother, a girlfriend from his college days, had once been engaged. The topic seemed to upset him, so I never pressed it.

Feeling slightly nauseous for the second time that day, I rolled away from Petie. I slipped into the bathroom and stayed until I was sure my stomach would settle. Holy crap, I thought, is my period late? I reminded myself that that wasn't unusual.

When I came out, Petie had put himself and the bed back in order, as if preparing for his next conquest.

My mood darkened. It was time to press my point.

"Petie, who was that woman you connected with at the ballpark after the last game? You can tell me."

"What woman you talking about?" He looked at me as he pulled on his jeans, posing so I could get the full effect of his partially unclad body.

"You know who I mean. The woman on the cell phone that evening. The phone you somehow lost."

Seeing that I was serious, he let go of his defensive amnesia. "She was a girl named Maria. Just like the song." He sang the line from _West Side Story_.

"So what's the big deal? You jealous or something? She's just a friend."

"No, not jealous. I'm just wondering what made you call that particular friend at that moment. Was she one of your 'quality' women?"

Petie shrugged. "Guess so. When I say friend, I don't necessarily mean girlfriend, y'know. She's practically middle-aged, so it ain't just about sex with her. She's somebody I talk to when things get dicey, sort of like a mother figure. I met her at some ritzy embassy affair last winter. I think she's married to a Cuban diplomat. Or maybe she's the diplomat."

"She's Cuban?" I was jolted. "And she's the one you decided to call when Manny pissed you off?"

"Yeah. Or wait, maybe she called me. Either way, I knew she had a bug up her ass about Manny."

"What kind of ... bug?"

"Who knows? Maybe she just hates that he's rich. Whatever it is, I can bend her ear about him."

I was beginning to think I might lose my lunch. "Petie, this is important. Do you remember specifically what you and this woman—this Maria—talked about?"

"Not really. I was pretty out of it."

But my alarm seemed to affect him. He frowned. "Now I think about it, I didn't just talk to her. I saw her."

"She was at the game?" I asked. "How come?"

"She always hung around the ballpark a lot, her and her type. I guess the Cuban embassy scored them some season tickets. She musta turned up right after I talked to her on the phone."

Struck by a wave of dizziness, I had to sit down on the bed. I grabbed a tissue from the bedside table and wiped my face. "Petie, what did you do? Let her into a secure area?"

"Hell no. Well, I may have let her into the tunnel. Yeah, I think I did, but that ain't so unusual. Lots of chicks get a thrill outta strolling in between the clubhouses."

"But this was a woman who you knew had it in for Manny—" I heard my voice rising. I got it under control. "So you and she strolled through the tunnel. What then?"

Petie's memory went blank at this point. He knew he had left the ballpark soon after meeting up with Maria. He just couldn't remember if she had left with him. Probably not, he figured, since he had ended up at home alone.

"Then you really have no idea what she was up to during that critical time? She must have had access to the elevator going up to the suite level. And from what you say about her, she had a reason to confront Manny, or thought she did. If nothing else, she was your friend, and he'd just insulted you."

"Yeah? So what? What's that got to do with me?" Petie still looked unsettled.

"Where is she now?" I asked. "When's the last time you saw her?"

"She musta went back to Cuba. Yeah, I think she said her assignment was ending pretty soon."

"That's just perfect," I said. "Petie, why didn't you tell the police what you're telling me?"

"They didn't ask me to spill my guts. They musta assumed I was blotto that night, which I was. I didn't really remember this shit until you forced it outta me just now. And I still ain't sure it means squat."

"That's for the police to decide. You must tell them."

"Like hell I must. Let the police do their own goddamned work. Why should I get mixed up in it?" He looked at me strangely. "You sure seem desperate to solve this case. You got the hots for Manny, by any chance?"

I stammered, and Petie laughed at me. Before I could get out a retort, he added, "Look, we all love the guy to death. He's a real clubhouse inspiration and all that shit. But there ain't nothing we can do to bring him back. It's the government's problem now, right?"

"Don't change the subject," I said. "We're talking about a crime that you may know something about."

"Look, I know it was a crime, but I didn't commit it. It wasn't my fault, even if it turns out some nut job of a senorita took advantage of me. Just leave me out of it."

"Petie—"

"If you wanna know the honest truth, I lied just now. Inspiration my ass. I can't stand the mealy-mouthed spic. I wouldn't mind seeing him traded away to Timbuktu. But that don't mean I'd do him in. Not on purpose, anyway."

I tried further to convince Petie of his responsibility in this matter. No one was about to accuse him of the crime. He simply had information that might be relevant.

But he responded, "What are you, some kinda amateur detective? If you're so desperate to get involved, go to the cops yourself and tell them what I said. I give you permission."

I told him I thought that would be hearsay. Then I switched tactics and began to push the idea that he could be a hero if he helped the police. Finally, I thought I was making some headway.

"But what if they ask me why I sat on all this shit for so long?"

I said, "Tell them you repressed it. Actually, that's what you did."

"Oh, great. Now you're some kinda amateur psychologist," he groaned. But he promised me he'd think about it.

* * * * *

### Chapter Four

I had always been careful about drinking and driving, unlike Jessie, who had a DUI on her record. Despite having stopped at one glass of wine with lunch, I erred on the side of caution while behind the wheel, staying a few miles per hour under the speed limit and giving the finger to the couple of morons who honked at me.

So I couldn't imagine what I had done wrong when I noticed an unmarked police car unmistakably trailing me on Rock Creek Parkway. The revolving light on the dashboard went on, and a voice on loudspeaker ordered me to pull over.

I followed orders and waited, trembling and sweaty. Maybe my overcaution had done me in. I could feel my face flush, which would probably look suspicious to the cops, but I was sure I could pass any road test they threw at me. As I watched the black man and white woman approach, I rolled down the window.

I gasped in disbelief. This had to be a crazy dream. They were my previous interrogators, Washington and Byrd.

"Nice to see you again, Mrs. Stone," said Washington, looking grim as he flipped up his sunglasses and flashed his badge—unnecessarily, I thought.

"I-I didn't know you were traffic police," I managed.

"We're not traffic police," said Byrd in an odd tone, as if insulted. "It's not your driving that concerns us today, Mrs. Stone."

"Then why are you stopping me?"

"We're sorry for the inconvenience," said Washington, "but we're taking you in for questioning." I thought I detected a note of triumph in his voice.

"Can I ask on what charge?" I said shakily.

"On suspicion of aiding and abetting a kidnapping."

This couldn't be happening. The nightmare was now personal. It blasted the vague guilt I had been nursing for weeks based on lingering doubts that I had done everything possible to help with the investigation. I had assured the interrogators that I knew nothing of importance, and I'd tried to believe it myself.

Stepping out of my Honda, I burst into tears. Byrd gave me a tissue, and I blew my nose. Washington explained that I wasn't technically under arrest, but neither was I free to decline this summons. I struggled to regain control and to understand the situation. Did these two honestly think they had their woman?

After Byrd had radioed for someone to tow my car, she asked her partner if she should put restraints on me. "Not if she's cooperative," said Washington, eyeing me coldly.

The thirty-minute trip to DC police headquarters seemed endless. It was mostly silent, except for a few nerve-jangling bursts from the radio and the intermittent murmuring between the detectives. When I tried to say something, they cut me off, telling me I would get my chance later, in the presence of a lawyer if I preferred. I held my tongue until we pulled into the underground garage of the dingy, gray building on Indiana Avenue that lay in the shadow of the Capitol's dome. By then, I had pieced the story together—something these cops could have done, if they had been as interested in their jobs as they seemed to be in each other.

"I don't need a lawyer," I announced, "but you two might, for false arrest. You've got the wrong girlfriend."

They glared back at me, uncomprehending. I knew it wasn't smart to threaten them, but they had not hesitated to humiliate me. "You've got the wrong day, the wrong circumstances, and the wrong cell phone conversation. You've got it all wrong, from start to finish."

•

The one call I was allowed to make from headquarters went not to my lawyer husband but to Jessie. By the time she arrived, I had explained my presence at Petie Jansen's house that afternoon and convinced the detectives that there were women besides me on his cellular Rolodex.

I had no choice but to go through the story again for Jessie's benefit when she got there. I said I was sure Jansen would confirm the details when asked; we had just been discussing the possibility of his coming forward with what he knew about the "other girlfriend." Jessie absorbed all of this in silence. I had never told her about my affair with Jansen, although I was sure she'd suspected it.

"Detectives, this seems to be an unfortunate misunderstanding," she summed up. "My sister has a friendship with Mr. Jansen, but as she's pointed out, she isn't the only one. Miranda is the last person I'd suspect of plotting to kidnap my fiancé. She says she wasn't the woman in communication with Mr. Jansen that day, and I believe her." She eyed me as if she might need more convincing in private.

Washington and Byrd offered only slight apologies for "inconveniencing" me and conceded that this new information might prove useful. They said I was free to go, adding that my car would be taken out of impoundment and returned to my home later that day.

Jessie and I left police headquarters together in her Ford. After she had ruminated in silence for several minutes, I exclaimed, "Jessie, would you drop the damned pensive act? You know perfectly well I'm not 'Maria.' I was at your side that entire day, except for a couple of bathroom breaks. I was right behind you when you tried to invade Carter's suite. When did I even take my cell phone out of my purse?"

"I know, I know. I'm a little shocked by what I just heard, okay? Can't you understand that? For one thing, I never suspected the Cuban embassy of harboring a criminal. Some of those folks were helpful to me when Manny was in Cuba the first time, retrieving Bobby. They gave me great background information for my article. I remember thinking they were dedicated people who did the best they could to mitigate a horrible regime. I guess I never asked myself why they would want to help me."

"You should know by now," I said, "that not every good source turns out to be a good person."

She shot me a dirty look, as if I had questioned her journalistic integrity. That was off limits, so I braced for a fight. But she changed the subject.

"I also could've done without knowing all the gruesome details about you and Petie Jansen. Honestly, Randi, if you have to cheat on your husband, can't you do better than that creep?"

I said, "Once in a while, 'that creep' manages to make me feel like a reasonably attractive woman."

"But why were you hanging out with him today, when you told me just this morning you and Tommy were getting along better?"

Suddenly tired to death from the trauma I'd gone through, I snapped, "I'm sorry, Jess, if my lifestyle offends you. It's just that not every girl is lucky enough to experience a perfect love like yours."

At this, she burst into tears—the last thing I had expected. I knew instantly I shouldn't have needled her about her "perfect love," when for all anybody knew she might never see Manny again. Trying to find the words to apologize, I began to sob with her.

"God, we're in great shape," said Jessie between sniffles. "I better stop somewhere so we can pull ourselves together."

"This isn't the best place to stop," I observed. We were on Georgia Avenue, heading out of DC but still a half-mile from the Maryland line. It was a neighborhood of drab-looking business establishments. I knew from various articles in community newspapers that there was more vibrancy to some of these places than met the eye, but it seemed quiet for a late Saturday afternoon.

Saying she needed gas, Jessie pulled into a service station and stopped at the nearest available pump. When I saw her struggle with it, I got out and tried to help her, only to buckle under its weight myself.

One of the attendants came out to assist us, apologizing for the difficulty that "ladies" always had with the pump. Jessie looked flustered by her failure, while I thanked the man for the full service. He reminded me of Detective Washington with his tall, slim physique and his olive skin tone, but the similarities ended there. His niceness was a sharp contrast to the detective's arrogance.

"You okay, miss?"

I thought he was asking me, but Jessie replied, "I'm fine." A moment later, she clutched both her midriff and her head.

"Well, I'm not so fine, myself," I said, imitating her gestures. "I need a ladies' room, pronto."

The attendant got us the key, and Jessie and I crowded into the tiny bathroom. It was my usually stoic sister who pushed her way to the sink first, throwing up what looked like this morning's breakfast. In a sympathetic reaction, my heavy lunch began to move. I had to nudge her aside to take my turn at the sink.

When we had cleaned up our respective messes as best we could, we contemplated one another, half laughing, half tearful.

"We really are twins, aren't we?"

"In trouble, in tandem," I responded. "That's us."

•

We continued north on Georgia Avenue, into Maryland. Jessie's apartment faced that busy thoroughfare. She had always claimed to get stimulation from the traffic, especially the ambulances and cop cars that raced by late at night. Even as she and Manny planned to buy or build their dream house in some gated community, she wondered if she would miss the flow of real life outside her bedroom window.

We were proceeding straight to her apartment, she told me, because she had a stash of what we both needed—home pregnancy tests.

"Sounds like you planned this," I said.

"I guess I did, on some level." She was breathing hard as she parked in back of the two-story brick building. "Wouldn't it be incredible if it's true? It's been a little over a month since Manny was taken from me. If it turns out he left a part of himself behind—what poetic justice. And what a kick in the teeth to the kidnappers."

"I hope you get what you want," I told her a few minutes later as she disappeared into the bathroom with a kit.

"I hope I do, too," I added, trying to put a clamp on my turmoil. I could only pray that my test was negative since, unlike Jessie, I certainly had not planned this. I usually tried to avoid comparing my life with hers, but there were times when comparisons slapped me in the face.

Jessie emerged from the bathroom and announced it was my turn. She had left her test tube in a cardboard rack, with the dipstick inserted to soak up the urine sample. I followed the same procedure, placing my tube beside hers. Then we waited the required fifteen minutes to see whether the ends of the sticks turned pink.

Jessie flipped through the television remote, looking for some distraction. As usual, she raced right past news programs for fear of hearing something worrisome about Manny.

"You're really sure this is a good thing?" I wanted to be happy for her, but my own hormones seemed to be talking. "It won't bring Manny back, you know. It might make matters worse."

"How do you know it won't bring Manny back? It already has, in a way." She patted her midriff in an intimate manner that made me want to spew again. "Don't you understand? Manny will have all the incentive he needs to get through this nightmare and come home safe and sound."

"But there are other possibilities," I pointed out. "What about Guadalupe's reaction, for example? She could get even more jealous and determined to grab Bobby back."

I was astounded by Jessie's moralistic tone. "What about you? You don't look happy, just sick. How come? There isn't the slightest chance it's your husband's?"

"Christ, who knows yet if it's anything? I've been late and nauseous before, many times. And so have you."

Even so, I was performing desperate calculations in my head as I spoke. As if I didn't already know the answer. My reconciliation with Tommy had been too recent to produce these symptoms.

"All I know is I feel damned strange," said Jessie, "and you look positively green in the face."

I began to sob for the third time that day. Jessie massaged my shoulder. "I'm usually not one to judge, Randi, you know that. But how could you have been so stupid? We're both familiar with birth control, and I know I was careless, too. But at least I planned on marrying my guy. What in the world were you thinking? That you might divorce Tommy and marry that creep, Jansen?"

"I know I wasn't thinking that," I said. "I was between pill prescriptions, and I just took a stupid chance. I wasn't thinking at all."

"Well, maybe you better start thinking abortion."

The word sent a shudder through me. Both Jessie and I were adamantly pro-choice. We made an annual ritual of attending the rallies on the National Mall that commemorated _Roe v. Wade_. We shouted down any opponents that got in our way. But none of that prevented me from moaning, "I never thought I'd come to this."

"Nobody does. But when you act like an idiot, accidents happen."

"I may have acted like an idiot, but I'm not so different from you. Deep down, maybe I willed it to happen." The realization grew on me.

"So you could be with Petie? Are you nuts? He'll run for the hills when he finds out."

"He can run anywhere he likes, for all I care."

"Then what on earth do you want?" Jessie demanded.

Had I desired anything besides Petie's body? I had to stop and consider.

Finally, I answered, "I want my husband back, okay? The guy I married, not the guy he is now. Maybe I was trying to make him jealous so he'd want me again."

"Tommy, jealous? He'll be too angry for that. Randi, you're really playing with fire."

It was time to confirm that. Jessie charged into the bathroom, checked her dipstick, and yelled, "Pink!" The tears came, copious and happy. Then I checked mine. If anything, it was pinker than Jessie's, and my tears came faster.

•

There was nothing to do but go home and wait for Tommy. I got there at six and saw no sign of him and no message. My usual procedure on weekends was to start dinner around this time. If I were feeling generous, I might try to keep it warm for up to two hours. I would eat when I got hungry, and he would join me if he arrived before eight. If he got home later than that and hadn't eaten, he would be reduced to cheese and crackers and beer. At least, that would be the rule until he mastered the art of warming up leftovers.

This evening, I just sat and waited. When Tommy finally came in, shortly after eight, he looked guiltier than usual. I sensed he had something to tell me but was thrown off his stride by the sight of me doing nothing.

"You haven't had dinner yet?"

"I don't feel like it." I paused to make him sweat a little. "We've arrived at a crossroads, honey. We need to talk. But I'd like you to go first."

"Why me?" he asked.

"Because I have a feeling you've been sitting on secrets longer than I have."

"I need a beer," said Tommy, disappearing into the kitchen. "And if we're gonna talk, I'm ordering in a pizza."

•

A little over thirty minutes later, we were indulging in the only mutual love we could hit on that night—a pizza with everything on it—while digesting many unpalatable truths about each other. We sat on the living room couch with paper plates on our laps, the pizza box between us, as he drank beer and I drank Coke straight from the can.

After chewing and swallowing a delectably greasy piece of pepperoni, I said, "Tommy, it's time for complete honesty. Are you having an affair with Madeline Carter?"

As usual when backed into a corner, he averted his eyes, and he looked to be sweating. But then he blurted, "Yeah."

"Tell me about it," I said.

"It's only been a few times, including today. That's why I was late for dinner. I thought about it a lot on the drive home—I mean, about why I was doing it. And then I came home to find you, hugging yourself that way. I knew right away what had happened."

He paused to douse his anger with a second beer. "I know it's not mine. It's Jansen's, isn't it?"

"We'll get to me in a minute. Right now I want to know why you're doing it."

Tommy tried to explain. He couldn't deny he had a lust for powerful women and had jumped on his "first real chance" to indulge it. Madeline's combination of well-preserved good looks, sharp mind, and her unsubtle promises to advance Tommy's career had been impossible to resist. The pipeline she'd offered to Carter Industries, with its wonderland of opportunities for an ambitious man, was something he wanted to keep open.

How could I blame him? And how could I hope to compete with Madeline? I remembered feeling intimidated by her adamantly pro-gun speech at that Richmond conference long ago, as well as her other strong views. Since then, I had seen her on TV several times in her role as spokeswoman for the Filibusters. She was the very definition of well-spoken and well-groomed. Could she be called pretty? Actually, handsome was more like it. I could sum her up by saying that she was the type of woman who felt comfortable in a business suit. She looked most like herself when she whipped a cell phone out of her Gucci purse to take an important call, removing a dangling earring before putting the phone to her ear.

"I've got to say," said Tommy, "the sexual relationship between Madeline and me, if it continued, could get to bedemeaning. It's not like she's asking me to divorce you, and she's not planning to divorce her husband. He's a state legislator who has ambitions for higher office. It's just that she expects me to be on call at her whim."

"That's basically what Petie wants me for," I put in.

Tommy devoured his third slice along with his third beer. "I'll bet. We've both been idiots, Randi, but we're human. I like executive women, and you like ballplayers. But I'm a bigger idiot than you. I drove you to this." He watched me rub my abdomen as I struggled to finish my second slice.

"You're sure being reasonable." I paused to wipe my mouth. "But there's no way you can let me off that easily. What I did has had the worst consequences." I almost laughed through my pain as we competed for the title of biggest idiot.

"To be perfectly honest, I slept with Petie without being sure you were cheating on me. I only suspected it. And the way I screwed up with the birth control—was it sheer carelessness, or my own nuclear strategy?"

"Speaking of the consequences," said Tommy, struggling with a full mouth, "what're you planning to do about it?"

"I haven't thought it through. I know I don't want to have it. But honey, if I weren't pregnant, we wouldn't be talking like this. When's the last time we really talked?"

"If I could only fix this for you, I'd try to make sure you never got hurt again."

That was the kindest thing he had ever said to me, and for the moment, I believed him.

•

As refreshing as that conversation turned out to be, we could not get through it in one sitting. By midnight we had succumbed to exhaustion and fallen asleep in each other's arms amid the pizza crusts, greasy paper plates, and empty cans. Through the rest of the weekend and the following workweek, we pondered the momentous decisions ahead.

We had time for indecision, but not much. Glancing at my government-issue calendar every morning was nerve-wracking. My ritual on arriving at the office was to fire up the coffee machine and sip leisurely as I reviewed the dates I had marked for upcoming deadlines, meetings, and hearings. Now that exercise made me both excitable and nauseous as I flipped ahead to December. I would be two months along by the first week. And my main project, the agency budget, would be due.

It helped to feel busy and important at work. My principal job was to convert piles of technical proposals and data on homeland security issues into a coherent budget document, understandable to laymen, government managers, and members of Congress. If I paused to consider the horrendous possibilities that these proposals were designed to prevent, my own concerns dwindled. Besides, I realized, there must be many women (or mere girls) in a similar fix all around me in DC, if not in the hallways of my own building.

Nevertheless, I rushed to the bathroom with a frequency that the secretaries, Caroline and Jean, began to notice. Caroline asked me if I were okay; Jean, who was on the hefty side herself, inquired in a sarcastic tone if I were gaining weight. "I don't think so," I responded sweetly, "but thanks for your concern."

I reflected that my mother had had miscarriages and that home pregnancy tests were not infallible. Only a visit to the doctor would make it official, I told myself. I longed for the sight of blood on my panties, which would set me free to start my life anew. I prayed to some unknowable deity to let me off the hook just this once. I would learn from my mistakes and go about it right the next time, I promised.

But that release didn't come, and it looked as if the issue would haunt our Thanksgiving holiday. We were almost grateful that circumstances this year did not favor the usual family sit-down dinner. Since Jessie was in no shape to fake a holiday mood, we wouldn't have to, either. Mom and Dad announced that they would host an informal buffet on Thanksgiving Day, and we were all free to drop by or not.

Tommy and I got there toward evening and helped ourselves to turkey and pumpkin pie. Jessie arrived later, having spent time with Manny's parents and Bobby in northern Virginia. We took our plates downstairs to the recreation room.

My dad, a skilled carpenter, had remodeled this area of the basement himself many years ago. Pictures of Jessie and me, including quite a few from our child modeling days, adorned the wood-paneled walls. I usually got a warm, safe feeling from spending time in my former playroom, but that was missing today. Even the pictures rattled me. Would I ever feel ready to raise a child myself?

Jessie took me aside at the first opportunity. "Have you told Mom and Dad yet?" she asked. I shook my head.

"Neither have I. But the feds know. Officially, I'm keeping it quiet until the State Department figures out how it will affect the negotiations. But I did tell Manny's parents. I just had to."

"I'm keeping an official silence, too," I joked, "out of concern that my situation could affect the Filibusters' position at the baseball winter meetings."

Jessie glared at me. "I don't think it's all that funny."

"Of course it isn't," I agreed. Then I changed the subject. "Have the feds heard anything about Manny's condition?"

"Precious little, at least that they're sharing with me. As far as they know, he's still in good health. But I know that even if the Cubans torture him, he won't bend about Bobby."

Mom approached us, so we had to stop talking. Later, I told Jessie, "I have a feeling Mom already suspects something. She's been looking at us with worried eyes and checking out how much we're eating. Dad doesn't suspect anything, thank God. But he's gonna be so pissed at both of us when he finds out."

"How's Tommy taking it? Have you told him you're considering an abortion? If he's serious about developing his right-wing cred, he'll push the adoption alternative—since it's too late for abstinence."

We both watched Tommy as he consumed his second or third dessert, tucking it in as if he had no particular worries.

"Please don't get into a political argument with him today," I begged Jessie. "I'm not in the mood to diffuse it."

"Why not?" teased Jessie. "I'd like to know how he's gonna settle this dilemma in his own mind. I'm just curious, that's all."

How indeed? I sighed to think how far apart Tommy and I had drifted since our college days. I didn't mind that he had voted a straight Republican ticket ever since we got married, just to mock my so-called liberalism. But I missed the live-and-let-live philosophy we used to share on social issues.

"Somehow I doubt Tommy is selfless enough to raise another man's child as his own," said Jessie. "What do you think?"

"He might surprise you."

I hardly knew why I said that. I tried to decipher the pensive look that came and went on my husband's face as we observed him from twenty feet away. I didn't think he was pondering the state of my womb.

"Tommy's molding himself into a mover and shaker," I told Jessie. "Right now, what's happening on the home front is secondary to him."

"Yeah, I'll bet he hasn't missed a beat just because you got knocked up."

"Men never let trivia like that stop them. Just like I seriously doubt your condition will affect the Cuban negotiations."

"I wouldn't know." Jessie's suddenly steely eyes shifted from Tommy, to me, and back again. "Maybe you should ask your husband about that. He must have learned something by cozying up to the Carters like an aspiring son-in-law."

I refused to rise to this bait. Jessie continued, "I'd say he's processing some kind of red-hot information right now and is trying to decide whether to let the rest of us in on it."

"Get a grip, will you?" I gasped. "You're suggesting that just because Tommy is being considered for a job at Carter Industries, he knows more than you do about what's going on with Manny? It's your paranoid hormones talking again."

•

On the Sunday after Thanksgiving, I confronted Tommy. "We need to talk."

This time I'd greased the wheels of our discussion with a take-out Chinese meal, which I had arranged on the dining room table. Tommy nodded and bit into an egg roll as I began.

"Jessie thinks you're sitting on some information about Manny."

Tommy kept chewing without comment. I pressed on, "If you know something, it must be because of your friendship with Madeline Carter."

Tommy laughed as he swallowed. "Don't you think that's a bit of a stretch? Madeline's just a baseball executive."

"Yeah, a baseball executive who happens to be the daughter of a very powerful owner." I paused. "Tommy, I need to know something about you and her."

He tensed up, until he realized I was probing the boardroom and not the bedroom. I said, "Explain to me just what kind of job she's discussing with you. She must know you're not that into baseball." He still hesitated, so I continued, "You're not that into big-time real estate deals, either. So what other Carter interest is drawing you in? Could it be—politics?"

Spooning his won-ton soup with vigor, Tommy appeared to consider whether he could trust me with information of a political nature. Finally, he said, "Madeline's husband, Donald Bushnell, is planning to run for the U.S. Senate. He was expected to go after her father's old House seat in southwest Virginia—the same seat Jeremiah Smith held before Carter. But they've decided to take a shot at the big time. I've been writing position papers for him, sort of unofficially. I might take a leave of absence from the firm to work for the campaign. But I haven't committed to that yet."

"I hope not. That would be quite a big step." Which you might have at least mentioned to your wife, I thought, while plotting it out with your girlfriend. "What issues are you writing about?"

"The whole gamut. Anything he asks for."

"Would immigration policy be one of his hot items?" I asked.

"Absolutely." After a moment's hesitation, he added, "It's hot for everyone."

With my prodding, Tommy described the prospective senator's views on several major issues. The picture that emerged was that of a typical rural conservative. Donald Bushnell would have strong views about immigrants, and perhaps about the related matter of Manny Chavez's fate.

I asked to read Tommy's latest essay, which he had been pounding out on his computer before dinner. He shrugged and said, "Sure." I hoped to find at least a few nuggets of wisdom that I could agree with. Otherwise, how would we ever stop drifting apart? He followed me into his study, offering disclaimers. "Don't take it too seriously. The scenarios I'm setting out are strictly theoretical."

"I should think so," I said a few moments later, as I began to read through brief histories of a few notable "citizen brigades" that had attempted to wage war or influence the outcome of conflicts. Tommy's paper highlighted two such efforts that had failed for lack of timely materiel from the government, which had either ignored them or paid them mere lip service. First was the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, which had plunged into the Spanish Civil War during the 1930s. Then Tommy's paper discussed, in more detail, the Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba in 1961.

Suddenly, Wilson Boyd's name leaped off the screen. Tommy had quoted his colorful speech from a few weeks back on the Outdoor Channel, in which he'd envisioned the possibility of rescuing "my teammate and good friend Manny" using a band of street-smart fighters.

I recalled Boyd's references to the Bay of Pigs invasion, which had been astounding for their ignorance. Yet he must have grabbed the imagination of his target audience when he'd advocated a brigade packed with rifle-wielding ballplayers and other enthusiasts. They might not know military history, but at least they knew how to take on a battle and win.

"Wilson the Conqueror," I scoffed, while easily picturing Boyd as a citizen-soldier with a specific dog in this fight. His ideas matched up with Javy Castilla's televised proclamation that liberating Cuba from "Little Castro" would have a domino effect on other Caribbean nations, serving to advance freedom and improve the quality of life for the entire Hispanic world.

"Wilson's kind of a new-age redneck, isn't he?" I observed. "Hankering to do something for 'his Hispanic friends,' instead of always railing about sending them back where they came from."

Tommy shrugged, but he must have sensed that Boyd's willingness to fight had sparked my admiration. Now there's a real man, I caught myself thinking.

Tommy had to use the bathroom, which gave me a chance to check his e-mail. This was a dishonesty we practiced regularly on each other. I left my electronic life open to him almost every evening when I got up from my own computer and went into the kitchen to start dinner. I doubted he had seen any incriminating e-mails, but I suspected he had read several false starts on my screenplay.

I discovered that Tommy had sent an earlier draft of his "citizen brigade" piece to Madeline Carter, and she had replied favorably—so favorably that I wondered if she envisioned wielding a rifle in such an organization herself. In his return message, Tommy had tried to dampen her enthusiasm. On reflection, he seemed unwilling to advocate military action against Cuba.

When we returned to the dinner table, we finished our meal in silence. By the time I cracked open my fortune cookie, I had worked up a conspiracy theory that would make my sister proud.

"Just out of curiosity, Tommy, what are the chances that the Smith administration was behind Manny's kidnapping?"

Tommy almost spat out his own cookie. "Jesus, Randi. How would I know something like that? I don't work in the White House."

"But you'd like to, wouldn't you?" I needled. "You seem to idolize the president, although I'm damned if I know why."

"I wouldn't approve of any president getting involved in the kidnapping of an American citizen. That would be an impeachable offense."

"But what if Smith was so gung-ho to attack Cuba that he was willing to risk it? Manny's kidnapping is the best provocation he'll ever have."

Tommy shook his head to dismiss my theory, but I kept goading him. "Admit it. You've always admired Smith's warrior mentality, even if you never wanted to go to war yourself."

"How about you?" he replied. "You lust after those Belton League types even while you put down their politics. You blush at the sight of Wilson the Conqueror stoking his rifle on TV. Not to mention Petie Jansen, your true love." For the first time, that smooth lawyer's voice had cracked.

"My true love? Don't be ridiculous."

"Really? I notice you haven't done anything about his baby."

"Don't worry. I will." I tried to speak firmly, but my husband's judgmental tone reduced me to tears.

•

Tommy's correspondence with Madeline continued, exposing him as a surprising pacifist. At the risk of displeasing Madeline with his reticence, he continued to oppose going to war with Cuba as long as diplomatic options were available.

Having taken the measure of Guadalupe and Ramirez, Tommy proposed appeasing them with a symbolic gesture. I illicitly read the e-mail twice before I recognized his idea as my own. I recalled mentioning to Jessie that Manny could play a few games for the Cuban national team in order to appeal to the baseball fan in Ramirez. At the time I'd felt I had come up with an inspired plan, although Jessie hadn't cared for it, thinking Manny would be humiliated.

Now Tommy, who'd overheard that phone conversation, was taking credit for the idea, but Madeline wasn't buying it. "We can't play games with terrorists," she had responded. "If they'd rather face our military might, I say fine. Let's see how much they like it."

We already knew that Javy Castilla was itching for a fight. Why didn't the baseball owners want to play ball?

As the electronic relationship between Madeline and Tommy grew testier over the next days, I felt him drifting back to me. Meanwhile, I had made an appointment with my gynecologist for a checkup and to discuss my options. A few days before I was scheduled to see the doctor, I began spotting and cramping. I took another pregnancy test, and it was still positive. When I compared notes with Jessie, she told me she was having no such symptoms.

My distress at this astounded me. I had been working out vigorously on the exercise cycle, mainly to let off steam, but half hoping to dislodge the thing. Now that the choice was slipping out of my hands, all I felt was resentment. I realized my condition had given me a kind of clout. It had made Tommy jealous, although he strove to hide it. Plus, it was something I could hold over Petie's head, though he didn't yet know of it.

The night before my appointment, Tommy brought in a pizza for dinner—plain cheese this time, in deference to my intermittent nausea. As I ate gingerly, gazing at my husband's concerned face, I had a revelation: we were screw-ups who deserved each other. Our joint ambition to be movers and shakers, or at least to be close to those who were, had led us each into unmanageable relationships outside our marriage. We would always fail spectacularly and fall back into each other's arms.

After consuming two pieces while I still fiddled with my first, Tommy said, "Randi, I wish circumstances were ... different. I think you know that."

I remained silent.

Picking up a third piece, he resumed, "So your doctor will take care of it tomorrow, right?"

I stared at him in disbelief. It was time for me to explain some harsh realities. "We better hope Mother Nature takes care of it first. If not, the law requires the doctor to try like hell to change my mind. If I withstand that, he'll send me to an abortion clinic, which might or might not be targeted by lunatics."

"There's no way the doctor can just do it without all the fuss if—"

"If we pay him a bribe?" I interrupted. "I'm not a lawyer, but that sounds illegal to me."

Tommy swallowed, wiped his mouth, and frowned. "You know I'm against abortion, personally and professionally. Our firm has defended some of those pro-life demonstrators. Frankly, if this got out, it could hurt my career."

His determination to be honest was so refreshing that I sat back and enjoyed it. "I'm glad you've decided not to have another man's baby. I wish it had never happened, but I realize I'm partly responsible. I just want it to go away quietly. Does that make me an incredible hypocrite?"

"I guess it does." My appetite surging, I attacked my slice. "But it's perfectly human," I then added.

After I had eaten a healthy portion of pizza, my vague nausea gathered and sharpened in the center of my midriff. Clutching myself, I ran to the bathroom. The bleeding was intensifying. When Tommy knocked on the door, I told him I was sure we were getting our wish. Why, then, were my tears flowing faster than the blood?

The next day, the doctor confirmed the miscarriage, cleaned up the mess as best he could, and sent me to bed with a strong antibiotic. I spent the next three days nursing my physical and emotional pain. Tommy brought me coffee and toast each morning as I lay in bed before he left for work.

I called Jessie and told her my news. Then, unsure of what I was doing, I tried a few times to phone Petie Jansen. I didn't know what I would say if I reached him, but I never did.

He had left an overly cute message on his answering machine: "Hi, everybody. Petie here. Can't talk to you right now, 'cause I'm being investigated by the FBI for consorting with a Cuban gal. If you don't hear back from me, I might be in jail."

I was tempted to leave him an equally inappropriate message: "Hey there, Petie. Guess what? Or maybe I should say, guess who? I'm the latest woman you impregnated without benefit of marriage. Totally my fault—I'm not blaming you in the least. Just wanted to reassure you, in case you heard about it somewhere else, that you're not gonna have another unwanted mouth to feed or another chick to avoid marrying. Problem solved. Bye."

Finally, I called one last time and left him a message stating the bare facts. I decided not to count on a response.

* * * * *

### Chapter Five

Jessie called a few times during my days of bed rest, but we kept our conversations brief. I wondered if she were superstitious about talking to me. When I had first told her about the miscarriage, she'd said, "It's just as well, you know. Forget about it and move on."

The second time she said this, I snapped, "I know it's just as well, but it's not that easy to forget. Can't we talk about it a little? It doesn't mean it's gonna happen to you. We don't necessarily do everything in tandem."

"Listen, I gotta go. There's another call coming through."

"Don't tell me it's Oprah again," I said. "Or wait, maybe it's Jerry Springer this time. Maybe he wants both you and Guadalupe for a staged catfight." I knew Jessie had turned down every offer she had received so far to discuss her romantic dilemma on national television.

"Randi, it's my State Department contact. This could be important. I don't usually hear from him early in the morning. Talk to you later."

I waited for Jessie to call back with the news, whatever it was. The longer I waited, the more irritated I got. She really didn't want to talk to me at all. Had I become poisonous to her?

To hell with her, I thought. I settled back into bed, picked up the remote, and clicked the TV on. The shock of what I saw on the cable news station sent me hurtling back against my propped-up pillows. I clicked through the channels to confirm that this story was being fed to all the major news outlets.

Manny was sitting at a long table with a huge Cuban flag as a backdrop. He had a satellite phone pressed to his ear and was smiling intermittently as he conversed. Flanking him were Cuban officials. A network commentator pointed out that Captain Alfonso Ramirez Junior of the Cuban Army, the heir apparent to President Ramirez, was seated at Manny's left. He was decked out in full military regalia, as were several older men occupying places at the table. At the far left was a man who looked about sixty but grinned and gestured like a boy. He was wearing the uniform of the Cuban national baseball team. On the other side, smiling beatifically, was Guadalupe—the intended bride of Alfonso Ramirez Junior, according to the commentators.

On a hunch, I picked up my cell phone and speed-dialed Jessie's number. My call went to her voice mail. I studied Manny's face, which had the weary, pasty look of a prisoner who had been eating and sleeping irregularly for weeks. The short-sleeved shirt he wore revealed that his usually taut muscles had gone slack, but the way his face lit up as he talked almost counteracted that effect. I assumed he was on the phone with Jessie and that she had shared with him the news of their coming child.

The commentators confirmed that Manny was talking to his fiancée in Maryland, but they seemed unaware of her pregnancy. They speculated that Ramirez Junior had invited this news coverage because he was about to perform a magnanimous act in his father's name. He had surrounded himself with military brass to demonstrate that he was in charge of the situation, but he was also passing himself off as a family man, a sportsman, and a humanitarian. Guadalupe's presence as his fiancée and also Manny's ex-wife gave the crisis a soap opera tint.

After Manny surrendered the telephone, Ramirez Junior introduced the older, grinning man as the manager of the Cuban national team, Pedro Delgado. The manager stood up and waved his arms excitedly as he announced, via a delayed translation, that a unique deal had been struck between the United States and Cuba. He predicted that baseball would prove to be the secret to world peace.

Delgado held up a jacket and cap with his team's insignias. He strode toward Manny, who got to his feet. Delgado draped the jacket across Manny's shoulders and placed the cap on his head. Manny struggled into the jacket, straightened the cap, and smiled gamely.

"Manny will explain our plan," said Delgado, "since he's the one who inspired it.

"Manny stayed on his feet and gazed into the camera. He maintained a somber, steady bearing and tone of voice as he spoke in English, glancing occasionally at a notepad on the table.

"For the last two months, during my time here in Havana, I've been discussing my situation with officials of the Cuban government. I admit to having twice violated Cuban law by leaving the country illegally. The first time as a twelve-year-old, I defected to the United States with my parents and my brothers and sister. The second time was last year, when I came here to retrieve my son, Roberto, from his mother and take him back to the United States. Although I felt justified in these acts, I understand the necessity of making amends. The most logical way I can think of to reaffirm my respect for the Cuban people, their leaders, and the rule of law is to offer my services to the national team as a ballplayer.

"I am proposing this plan of my own free will because of my desire to improve relations between the United States, my adopted country, and Cuba, the land of my birth. I'm trying not only to advance my own cause but also to usher in a new era of beneficial exchanges instead of threats. The plan calls for two baseball games. The first would take place at Castro Stadium in Havana, the second in the United States. Mr. Delgado has been in touch with two Major League owners, Johnson Carter of the Washington Filibusters and Javy Castilla of the National League champion Florida Keys. Both have expressed an interest in having their teams participate.

"If we succeed with this plan, it'll be worth the price I've paid and that my family and my fiancée have paid. I'm counting on the political and sports authorities of both nations to join together and make this happen.

"I say, let's not fight. Let's play ball."

Manny remained on his feet, a vague smile on his face, while everyone at the long table stood and applauded his speech. My first thought was, Jessie must hate this. She'll see it as extortion. Her televised phone conversation with Manny will rankle in her mind as an invasion of privacy. I felt an urge to call her and berate her for these inevitable feelings.

He's alive and well, I'd say. Or at least, he's well enough to contemplate playing baseball again. Once he gives these Cuban numbskulls the shot of Big League legitimacy they crave, it'll be in their best interest to free him. Then you and Manny can spend the rest of your lives analyzing their motives from the safety of whatever five-star gated community you move into.

With this in mind, I called Jessie again. I guessed she was probably still being debriefed by the State Department, in which case I'd leave a message. The show from Cuba continued while the phone rang in my ear. When I realized Guadalupe had just taken center stage, I cancelled the call.

Suddenly the horror of it all resurfaced as Guadalupe's smug smile filled the screen. The deal between the two nations, supposedly based on a universal love of baseball, now looked to me like a farce. I realized this was a personal vendetta that the Cubans were using for their own purposes. I couldn't blame Jessie for recoiling, even if Manny emerged from this debacle unscathed.

As Guadalupe began her remarks in the halting English that Jessie had declared phony, the camera backed up to show the entire group. Ramirez Junior and his aides were listening with sly grins and moist eyes. Manny wore a frozen smile. Whenever Guadalupe addressed him directly, he flinched.

"This agreement is especially important to me," she said, "because I'm going to be married to Alfonso Ramirez Junior in a civil ceremony very soon. That is why I feel moved to reach out to Manny's fiancée as a sister. I'm proposing that Jessica come to Havana and take her own vows with Manny before he plays his first game for the Cuban national team."

Guadalupe turned to Manny and poured it on even thicker. "I'm so grateful to have this opportunity to express my forgiveness before the whole world. I no longer see you as the ex-husband who betrayed me, but as a brother. It's vital that we acknowledge each other as family for the sake of our child, who now belongs to all of us. I trust that your heart has been touched the same way. Sharing Roberto is the way to cherish him."

I thought I might spew. Guadalupe had all but screamed the news that she was pregnant, too. Was I just bitter over losing my chance to participate in this baby-fest? Or would Jessie agree with me that the invitation to Cuba was dangerous as well as humiliating?

Not that she would have any choice but to accept. If she wanted Manny back, she would travel to Havana and marry him in the presence of his captors.

•

"I'd have thrown you a bang-up bridal shower if I'd gotten the chance," I told Jessie a week later over an informal luncheon at my house. "But since you're leaving so soon after the holidays, I guess this little send-off will have to do." I should have left it at that, but I added, "Maybe Guadalupe will be the one to do those honors when you get there. And as her new 'sister,' I guess you're obligated to return the favor. You can throw each other combination bridal and baby showers. An event like that could turn into a Cuban national holiday."

Eyeing me wearily, Jessie put down the fork with which she had been worrying a plate of lasagna. She stood up and loosened the zipper on her slacks as if to advertise that she was ten weeks along. "You sound bitter," she said. "Maybe you should get some counseling like your doctor advised."

I retorted, "I'm not bitter, but I'm awfully tired of hearing about the counseling option. Every time I call the doctor's office with an update about my persistent bleeding, somebody offers it to me again. It seems there are new requirements for providing 'psychological assistance' in cases like mine. I finally asked the nurse if that meant I was required by law to feel depressed and/or guilty about what happened."

"Good for you!" Jessie said, somewhat roused on my behalf. "They have no business pestering you about it. If they keep it up, I'd report them to the AMA."

"I've calmly explained my position, which is that my miscarriage was probably a fortunate thing, considering my circumstances. But it's no use getting angry with them if they're really just doing the government's bidding. Spooky as that is."

Jessie appeared to be growing energized. "You know what else is spooky? I got a call this morning from an old friend of ours—one that I had written off as a former friend. Care to guess who it was?"

"Deirdre Smith Gordon!" I exclaimed without hesitation. "What in hell did she want?"

"Hard to tell. She says she'd be delighted if I could find time to visit her at the White House after I return from Cuba. She blithered something about renewing our old friendship. She even hinted that she might like to throw me a baby shower. I never even admitted to her I was pregnant."

I was stunned. "What do you think she really wants?"

"I think she's decided I can be of use to the Smith administration if I pull off this mission. That is, if I bring Manny back as my husband, intact and ready to resume his real baseball career. The two of us, plus Bobby and our baby, will represent not only the perfect American family, but also the triumph of freedom over tyranny. We'll be the toast of the town."

"That could work for you," I said, "except I know you too well to believe you'll be able to shake off the humiliating circumstances."

"You may not know me as well as you think." Jessie pushed aside her plate and scowled at me. "It's just that sometimes I get so tired of this endless agonizing over who is and isn't responsible for what happened. I get sick of my own cynicism. Manny and I are in love. What else matters? We're ready to do whatever it takes to be reunited."

"That anything-for-love act is right up Deirdre's alley," I said. "After all, she's the national poster girl for overeducated stay-at-home wives and mothers. Always flaunting that law degree she never used."

"Don't put me in that category, please. I'll never be just a stay-at-home mother as long as I'm a journalist. Don't you think Manny knows that? He can practically recite from memory the article that brought us together—his story and Bobby's."

"I know he loves that and everything else about you, Jess," I assured her. "Please understand. I want that happy ending for you, too. But I'm afraid for you. It's a volatile situation you're heading into. I hope it doesn't lead to—bloodshed."

"Come on. You're expecting bloodshed at a ballgame?" Jessie yanked one of her blonde locks, almost violently.

•

Maybe the prospect of a bloody ballgame would rouse me, I thought. Anything to chase those holiday blues. I was just going through the motions of Christmas shopping and decorating while in actuality sadness overwhelmed me. Tommy brought home a large Christmas tree, and trimming it occupied us both for a while. But where was the relief from being off the hook for a stupid mistake? My bleeding had been checked, but I was still fighting destructive feelings that were powered by jealousy.

I managed to rally a little on Christmas morning. I had gotten Tommy the hunting gear he wanted, and he surprised me with a sexy nightgown. I put it on, and we went back to bed and enjoyed ourselves until it was time to get ready for midday dinner at my parents' house. However, I felt sure I wouldn't get through that without confronting my demon.

When we walked through the door, there was Jessie, sporting stretch pants and a maternity blouse that she wouldn't need for at least another two months. She explained that the officials in charge of arranging her trip to Cuba had recommended she wear outfits that accentuated her condition. She would play the pregnancy card for sympathy, assuming that Guadalupe would do likewise.

Jessie was already flaunting it, I thought. Mom kept glancing between the two of us with her usual worried eyes. Jessie's pregnancy had become official a few weeks back, when she'd announced it to the family. Mine never had, but Mom knew something had upset my equilibrium. Dad simmered, as he always did when he sensed one of his girls had been wronged or was in trouble. Little did he know it was true on both counts, for both of us.

We sat down to a dinner featuring several of Mom's specialties: chicken with orange sauce, wild rice, green beans, and salad. Jessie ate fairly well but skipped the wine. She announced that she and Bobby would be departing for Havana with the diplomatic delegation the day after New Year's Day. The baseball contingent, consisting of a representative portion of Filibusters players and front-office brass, would follow a week later. The team would hold workouts at Castro Stadium for ten days prior to the January 21 game.

Near the end of the meal, Tommy began to clear his throat, an ominous sign. I was about to get socked with bad news. Glancing apologetically at me, he announced, "This was only confirmed yesterday, but it looks like I'll be part of that second group. The firm is sending me to Havana as an advisor to Mr. Carter."

Jessie looked at him, dumbfounded, while my parents waited for my reaction. I was tempted to ask, "Don't you mean as an advisor to Madeline Carter?"

Instead, I put on a brave face for the family. "That's great, honey," I said, choking on it a little. "Sounds like an exciting professional opportunity. And this way Jessie will have at least one family member close at hand."

My parents and sister settled for this interpretation of events. I downed more wine, planning to have it out with Tommy when we got home.

•

"I think you should take me with you to Havana."

At least I had the satisfaction of shocking Tommy. He sat bolt upright on the couch, where he had been relaxing, gazing at the Christmas tree lights. He had evidently been waiting for me to make all things right between us, and prolong the holiday mood, by donning that sexy nightgown again. Instead, I had come out of the bedroom in my least romantic bathrobe and stood before him, arms folded against my chest.

"Are you serious?"

I scowled. "Why wouldn't I be serious?"

"Randi, you know I can't take you. This is a business trip, not a vacation."

"So?"

"I don't expect to have fun in Havana. It's too serious for that."

"Don't you think I know how serious it is?" I demanded. "I've been agonizing over all this stuff for months. In case you've forgotten, the baseball series was originally my idea."

Tommy looked discomfited to be reminded of this. "Why would you want to go?" he asked. "It'd be boring for you. I'll be in meetings the whole time, and the accommodations aren't gonna be great."

"It won't be all work. There's a ballgame involved," I reminded him. "I'd like to see it with you. Might be my best opportunity yet to explain the game to you."

He shook his head. "Security is gonna be incredibly tight. You have to be on a special list to go anywhere in that country. They're limiting it to a select few."

"So you're saying I'm not _select_ enough to go to my twin sister's wedding, but you are? Bullshit, Tommy. You just don't want me there."

"You're right. I don't want you there."

"What?" I exclaimed.

He recoiled a little at my anger. But then he came out with the first argument I could live with. "I'm telling you, it's a risky mission. I'd rather you stayed out of harm's way."

•

By New Year's Eve I still hadn't shaken the feeling that I was missing out on a fabulous junket. Was it possible that Tommy's scare tactics were bogus? What about all the people who were going in spite of the supposed danger? Tommy would have Madeline close at hand. Jessie's stepson, Bobby, would be at her side when she married his father. Many Filibusters players, including Petie Jansen and Wilson Boyd, had volunteered to go. Were they doing it for Manny's sake or for the adventure of it?

On a hunch, I tuned in to Wilson Boyd's Saturday morning hunting show on the Outdoor Channel. The sight of today's special guest made my blood boil. There was Petie Jansen, and he was acting as complacent as ever about everything. I had not communicated with him since blurting my news on his answering machine.

As a preliminary to quail hunting, the two men discussed the upcoming game in Havana. They remarked that the Cubans were known for playing "little ball," emphasizing speed and daring on the base paths rather than the power-dominated game favored by the Busters. In fact, Manny could turn out to be the main home run threat in the Cuban lineup.

"As long as he's wearing that Commie uniform," drawled Petie, "we gotta try to beat his brains in. And if he homers, our pitcher's gotta be man enough to knock him down the next time he's up."

"Real intelligent, Petie," Wilson drawled back. "This game ain't just about proving our manhood, y'know. We got a mission to bring Manny back safe, whole, and a true American again."

"Yeah, that's part of it," said Petie, "but it'd sure be fun to also bring back some Commie heads as trophies." He caressed his rifle and grinned.

"Jesus, man. I know you're just kidding around, but some folks that hear you might take you too serious. If this show had any ratings, we'd be in deep you know what."

I was slightly alarmed. Maybe Tommy wasn't exaggerating the danger of this mission as much as I thought. But watching this, there was no denying that I was also aroused. What was it about rednecks? I could never have married one, but they fascinated me nevertheless.

Petie was saying, "Hell, I know I'm just a dumb jock, but we're talking about winning a damned ballgame when we should be pushing a—whaddaya call it—revolution."

"Whoa, buddy. That ain't our job. I know I spouted off that way at first. But now that some of us are taking our wives down there, we're anticipating more of a romantic vacation than a war."

"Fine with me," said Petie. "I just might grab some of that romance for myself. I hear there's always a choice selection of senoritas hanging out at hotel bars."

"You got awesome diplomatic skills, man," said Wilson, letting loose with his high-pitched laugh.

As the banter continued, though, Petie reignited Wilson's warmongering instincts. Wilson admitted that Javy Castilla's call to arms several weeks ago had excited him more than the prospect of playing winter ball in Cuba. The two overgrown boys eventually agreed that if it weren't for the safety of the "ladies" accompanying the mission, they would be lobbing grenades instead of baseballs.

•

That evening, Tommy took me to dinner at the Palm, splurging on a hired limousine. I wondered whether he was trying to butter me up. I still planned to have it out with him at least once more before his departure for Havana. I would demand to know why, if the trip were so dangerous, some of the players were planning second honeymoons.

We found the restaurant practically in lockdown mode. While passing through several layers of security to get to our table, we heard that Deirdre Smith Gordon was in a private room with her congressman husband, other members of the Florida delegation and their spouses, and Javy Castilla, owner of the Florida Keys.

In this electrified atmosphere, I felt inhibited from pressing my personal issues. I had no doubt that if Jessie had been here, she would have tried to crash that high-powered powwow. But not me. I found myself distracted by the steak and lobster, a couple of strong gin and tonics, the political caricatures that adorned the walls, and the banter rising and falling all around me. The subtle glow from the lamps on the tables seemed to cast everyone, including my husband, in a romantic light.

Still, I was curious about what was going on in the back room. What could this mingling of Florida baseball and politics mean, on the eve of Major League Baseball's mission to Cuba?

"Why don't you investigate?" asked Tommy teasingly when I brought it up. "Go over there and tell the head of the detail you're an old friend of Deirdre's and that you'd like to talk to her."

"She'd have me detained on suspicion of being anti-Smith," I said. "Thanks, but I've already been hauled into police headquarters once this year."

"Deirdre reestablished contact with Jessie, so why not with you? It might work out even better. You're more diplomatic than your sister."

I sighed. "That doesn't seem to matter. Jessie can say anything to anyone and get away with it. I can't pull it off like she does."

We watched a few patrons try and fail to get past the guards; despite the high-toned clientele here, the security around Deirdre and her group remained impregnable.

We were halfway through dinner when a middle-aged man with about three days' growth of beard strode past our table, but he stopped when he saw Tommy. Short but muscular, the man was casually dressed, with only a sports coat thrown over his flannel shirt. His jeans were clean and pressed, and his cowboy boots were shiny.

"Well, if it isn't Thomas Stone," he exclaimed.

"Hello, Mr. Belton," replied Tommy, rising halfway from his seat. He introduced the man to me as Tex Belton Junior, son of the late founder of the Tex Belton League, which sponsored shooting ranges throughout the country, including our local one in Upper Marlboro, Maryland. Tommy had met Belton Junior, the current president of the national organization, during a conference the previous year at their Roanoke headquarters.

Belton shook hands with us both, and Tommy asked, "What brings you to DC?"

"Just making a quick inspection tour of the affiliate ranges," he replied. "I'll be dropping by Upper Marlboro in a few days. Maybe I'll see you then. Well, gotta run."

He headed for the security cordon. To my astonishment, he got by with no apparent trouble.

"Now I'm really curious," I said. "What business could Belton Junior have in there? He's not a baseball guy or a politician, is he?"

"Actually, he's sort of both," said Tommy, looking perplexed himself. "He was a minor league ballplayer at one time—in the Keys farm system, I think. And I guess it wouldn't be surprising if he knows Deirdre. The Belton League headquarters are in Smith's old congressional district."

"Still, they seem like strange bedfellows," I remarked. "Or do they?"

We speculated no further, but finished our dinner, left the restaurant, and headed home in the limousine, which made us feel like big shots ourselves. On the way, I tried again to take up the burning issue. Why was Tommy dead set against taking me on this trip when others were treating it as fun and games?

His reply was sharp and serious. "They're fools. This isn't gonna be any party."

•

I didn't believe him. As the day of his departure drew near, he became remote again. I began to doubt he ever intended to come back to me. On reflection, I found his "farewell dinner" tactic insulting. Once or twice during the following week, I fantasized that I was still carrying Petie Jansen's child.

On the Sunday morning before Tommy's scheduled departure, he found time to slip out to the shooting range—to hook up with Madeline, I suspected. On an impulse, I picked up the phone and punched in Petie Jansen's home number. I was surprised when he answered.

"Maria? Is that you?"

"It's Miranda."

"Christ, of course, Miranda. How you doing, kid? Sorry I didn't return your call a while back. Didn't really know what to say."

"I'm not blaming you, Petie. I was inexcusably careless. But it's just as well I lost it. I would probably have aborted it anyway."

"That ain't right," he said sternly. "That's murder."

I held my tongue, although I wondered if he would have taken such a strong position on the issue if I were still pregnant.

"So, what's up?" he resumed. "You planning on hitting Havana with your sis?"

"My husband's the one who's going on this trip, not me. He doesn't want to take me. Says it's too dangerous."

"Yeah, well, that's pretty uptight of him. Even though he might be right."

I was startled. "You think so? I thought he was just bullshitting me."

"Even if he is," said Petie with a short laugh, "he might be onto something. This little excursion ain't necessarily gonna end up being all about reaching out in friendship and crap like that."

"What else would it be about?"

"Dunno. I'm just gonna play the game like the warrior I am, and let the shit fly."

"Tommy's not like you," I said. "He's no warrior. Just because he loves guns doesn't make him a gunslinger."

"Christ, I know the type. He's too chicken to take you to Cuba. He don't trust himself to protect you."

If that was it, I thought, should I be grateful for Tommy's concern?

"There are warriors like me," continued Petie, "and then there are chicken hawks, like most politicians these days. And then there are just plain chickens. Every lady has to decide which kind of man she wants."

"Well said." I paused. "Since you're the warrior type, would you consider escorting me to Cuba?"

My proposal shocked even me, and it threw Petie off his stride. What would I do if he said yes?

"You know I'd like to, hon. You'd be my first choice if I didn't have other—"

"Obligations," I suggested.

"Yeah, obligations. Why don't you make your lily-livered husband take you on this trip? If he does, there's always a chance we'll run into each other down there."

"I'll work on it," I said, without the least hope. "But don't expect to see me hanging around your hotel bar. I'm not that kind of senorita."

On Monday morning, while I got ready for work, Tommy prepared to leave for Cuba. I had watched him pack the single suitcase he was allowed with two business suits, two casual outfits, and his shaving gear. He finished his packing while I was in the kitchen making coffee. Then he came in for a cup, and I took the chance to leave the kitchen and rifle through the suitcase. I found the bathing suit, shorts, and suntan lotion he had slipped in.

I said nothing about it but simply submitted to a good-bye kiss as he hoisted his suitcase at the door shortly thereafter. To my surprise, he clung to me for a moment. We kissed again, more passionately.

"I'll be back," he said, as if I had predicted he wouldn't.

In his wake, I had to sit down and sort through my feelings. I couldn't deny that I was aroused by uncomplicated guys like Petie and Wilson. But I had married a gun-loving non-warrior who couldn't seem to decide whether he preferred me or his militia-minded girlfriend. And I would wait for him.

* * * * *

### Chapter Six

During the next two weeks, my parents invited me to dinner frequently. Dad kept insisting that the U.S. government would ensure the safety of the travelers, although the phone calls we received from them were too constrained to be reassuring.

The reports we saw on the news weren't much better. The cameras did catch Jessie's arrival at the official residence in Havana, accompanied by a contingent representing the U.S. State Department. This group was met by an equally large number of Cuban officials in front of the palace. First there was a lot of handshaking between the government types, during which Jessie stood by, looking pale and nervous. Then Manny was brought out, and they stared at each other for a moment before Jessie gave way to tears and rushed into his arms. Manny looked teary eyed himself, but he seemed tentative as he put his arms around her. The two of them held hands as they disappeared into the palace, followed by the officials from both countries.

"That was totally posed," I declared. "Jessie looked like she was coached. And Manny looked like a robot."

"At least they're together," said Mom in a faltering voice. Dad held a grim silence. That was the last we saw of Manny and Jessie's reunion.

When Mom wasn't fretting about Jessie, she found plenty else to worry about where I was concerned. Trying to gauge my mood, she wondered if the relationship between Jessie and me had deteriorated. I insisted that our rivalry was natural and healthy, and always would be. After I confessed that I had miscarried (without revealing the father's identity), she and Dad both fussed over me, but I insisted I was fine. Mom hastened to assure me that Jessie would find motherhood more challenging than she imagined.

"Oh no, not Jessie," I laughed. "She doesn't intend to miss a beat. She wants it all, and she's going to have it. Marriage, motherhood, and, incidentally, a Pulitzer prize for reporting."

Over dinner one night, I aired one of my theories about Jessie's life plan. She had been pleased with the article that had put her on the journalistic map, but not entirely satisfied. Manny's rescue of his son from Cuba had been a great story, but not prize-worthy. Jessie herself had not been at the scene near the presidential palace that day or embedded with the Naval detachment that had helped with the rescue.

"This time she's right on top of the story," I said, digging into Mom's pot roast. "I'm not saying Manny's safe return and Bobby's welfare aren't her main priorities—I know they are. I just find it mind-boggling that her personal life never hinders her professional life, but actually enhances it."

"How's your own writing going?" Dad put in, spooning gravy on his mashed potatoes. "Still working on your screenplay?"

"That's just it. I'm always scribbling down great ideas for that screenplay, but it just meanders when I'm actually writing it. Not that I have time to write it, especially when Tommy's around. I get home from work every day, turn on my computer, and obsess in front of the monitor for a few minutes. Then it's time to jump up and start fixing dinner and tidying the house. Anyway, Jessie has read what I've done so far and says it doesn't ring true."

I didn't tell my parents that in the past few days, ever since I had last spoken with Petie Jansen, the screenplay had flowed. I had a new vision of him as a warrior with a comic twist.

Dad asked for another helping of meat. Mom went into the kitchen to get the platter, brought it in, and served him—but not without getting in a little dig. "Don't forget, I was once a hotshot executive in your advertising agency. Then the twins came along, and my brain turned to mush."

"Jessie didn't even enjoy babysitting when we were teenagers, although the money was good," I observed. "She complained she couldn't concentrate on her homework with kids around."

But this was different, I knew. She was taking the most romantic gamble possible, standing up to a dictator in defense of her fiancé, even using her pregnancy to manipulate world events. It was a much more "real" story than anything I had dreamed up for my screenplay, although I was trying.

Since she had critiqued my efforts, I would return the favor. "I think Jessie would actually have a better shot at that Pulitzer if she weren't so emotionally wrapped up in these events. Right now she's living the story, not observing it. Any news article about this trip could turn into a self-indulgent memoir."

"I trust Jessie's judgment," maintained Dad. I was a little surprised at his vehemence about this, suspecting as I did that he had harbored reservations about her engagement to a Hispanic.

"You've always thought she was the talented and ambitious one, which she is," I told my parents. "It's just that sometimes when she's passionate about a subject, she sees it in black-and-white terms and misses the nuances. Once in a while, I understand people better than she does."

"What people?" my parents both asked.

"For example, Wilson Boyd and Javy Castilla, who talked up Manny's kidnapping on television as if it were a great excuse to go in and conquer Cuba. Jessie jumped to the conclusion that they were the perpetrators."

"How do you know they weren't?" asked Mom, emotion rising in her voice. "At least, they helped create the ethnic tensions that allowed it to happen."

"Oh, come off it, Carol," groaned Dad. "That doesn't make them guilty of anything."

Mom was sounding more and more like Jessie these days. If you believed my mother and sister, practically all of us had aided and abetted the crime.

•

I wound up each visit with my folks by watching the eleven o'clock news. We switched between the local stations to pick up as many images from Cuba as we could.

During the first week, it was a feel-good story in an exotic vacation setting. The Filibusters and the Cuban national team were shown working out at Castro Stadium. In the morning, the visiting team took batting practice, and then the home team. During afternoon fielding practice, the two teams mingled. Manny made his first appearance toward the end of the week, sporting the Cuban red shirt with white star and white trousers with blue stripes. He had gotten into shape since that ghastly press conference, and his demeanor was more relaxed. He challenged Wilson Boyd to a home run hitting contest and won it handily. Other informal contests between opposing players followed, all in good fun.

Some of the evening entertainment at the Filibusters' hotel also made the news. The accommodations, contrary to Tommy's prediction, looked fairly luxurious. The players were treated to a buffet of Cuban delicacies, listened to live mambo and tango music, and took dips in the pool. Petie Jansen was shown instigating a major water fight. Though forbidden to drink, the players were free to sample the native cigars.

I tried, but I couldn't ever catch a glimpse of Tommy at poolside. Maybe he really was spending most of his time in meetings, as he had reiterated in his two brief phone calls to me since he'd left. For that matter, I didn't see Madeline Carter, either.

Mom and Dad got a call from Jessie after her wedding was over. The public heard a few details via a television interview with Johnson Carter, who had witnessed the ceremony before a local judge. Manny and Jessie were spending their "honeymoon" with little Roberto in the presidential palace. My parents felt cheated to have missed their daughter's wedding, although I assured them it was only a stopgap. As soon as Jessie got home, she would reinstate plans for the big affair she had been forced to postpone.

We all worried that Jessie's non-appearance on the news after her arrival at the presidential palace might mean that she was under arrest, or perhaps under the weather. Mom and Dad hoped she was restraining her tongue in the presence of the Ramirez family—and that she had met Guadalupe's sisterhood overtures at least halfway.

As game day approached, my parents conjured up increasingly macabre scenarios of life inside the official residence. We gave up any pretense of having normal family dinners. Instead we ordered in pizza or Chinese food and ate in front of the TV as we awaited further news from Cuba. Mom feared that Guadalupe was capable of doing away with Jessie in order to keep both Manny and Bobby for herself. Dad wondered if the Cubans planned to force the newlyweds to stay in Havana until their child was born and then stake a claim to him or her. Giving way to agitation, Mom demanded, "I'd like to know who in the government can assure me that my daughter will get through this alive."

•

The day of the big game dawned mild and fair—a perfect day for winter baseball, according to the ESPN commentators. I was at my parents' house that Saturday afternoon to watch the game. As soon as the cameras began panning the capacity crowd of thirty thousand, most of our questions were answered. Everyone we were concerned about was seated in the well-secured VIP section on the lower first-base side. President Ramirez was holding court in the front row.

It was hardly a reassuring sight. Several members of the American delegation had the stiff and unnatural look of brainwashed prisoners. Tommy was positioned, like hired help, directly behind the Carter contingent—Madeline Carter, her father, and the younger brother who worked in the Busters front office. The row below the Carters was occupied by politicians representing both the District of Columbia and Florida. Deirdre Smith's husband, Congressman Ernest Gordon, was sitting next to Florida Keys owner Javy Castilla.

Then the cameras scanned the extended Ramirez family in front, and Jessie came into view. "Oh my God," I blurted. "She's in a tight spot."

My parents, in their relief to see her, accused me of overstating the case. They agreed that she looked uncomfortable, but at least she looked well. Her stepson, Bobby, sat between her and Guadalupe. As the game got underway, the cameras kept returning to this trio, paying more attention to them than to the politicians, the team owners, or even President Ramirez.

Mom tried to assess whether Jessie had the typical look of a three-and-a-half-months pregnant woman, but it was difficult to tell. She was not wearing the maternity outfit that she had modeled for us and had planned to take with her. Her ensemble, consisting of blue stretch pants and white T-shirt, must have been Cuban government issue, as Guadalupe was wearing the same outfit.

I said, "Look at her, being forced to pose for the family picture. I think she's biting her tongue to hide her disgust."

My parents thought Jessie was doing a heroic job, and I seconded that. Fortunately, the game was an exciting one, which distracted the network somewhat from the high-profile spectators. Every time the Busters inched ahead, the Cubans caught up. Home runs flew out of the relatively small park. When Manny hit one for the Cubans in the bottom of the first inning, the local fans went wild, making him their hero—if he wasn't already.

The cameras returned to the VIP section while lunch was being served there. Bobby flinched and whined when his mother tried to make him eat. It was Jessie who comforted the four-year-old, persuaded him to try one of the nachos, and then coaxed him to sip something from a cup. He snuggled next to her for a quick nap, inching as far away from Guadalupe as possible.

The Busters continued to bash the ball. In the sixth inning, Petie Jansen homered, giving the American team a six to five lead. I jumped to my feet and cheered, startling my parents.

But they were more perturbed when shortly after, Jessie was shown leaving her seat and moving toward the nearest exit, a guard trailing her. "I'll bet she ate too much of that spicy stuff," said Mom. "I warned her about that before she left."

"Get real, Mom," I said. "She's being force-fed. She has to pretend to like the local cuisine even when it makes her sick." Guadalupe, I noticed, had finally managed to one-up Jessie, simply by holding her nachos better. Now she was getting her chance to caress Bobby without interference, a smug smile on her face.

My parents fretted over Jessie's absence, until finally one of the network's roving reporters announced that she had returned to her seat and looked fine—radiant, in fact. That was an odd description in these strained circumstances, perhaps calculated to strike a chord. Jessie's condition had yet to be confirmed by the news media, but was turning into one of the most poorly kept state secrets in history.

Speculation about this added spice to the story behind the game. Manny and Jessie's reunion had already been trumpeted from every angle. Now the reporter claimed to have gotten word that Manny would be free to accompany Jessie and Bobby to Miami for the game between the Cuban team and the Florida Keys, scheduled for January 28.

But how "free" would Manny be? The network was trying to confirm the details. Would he and his family be traveling with the Cuban team? Would Guadalupe tag along? Had Manny agreed to give her visitation rights?

Great as this news was, I wondered how "radiant" Jessie would be when she realized she was missing out on her big story. While she had been away from her seat, Javy Castilla, the object of many of her previous suspicions, had moved up to the front row to confer with President Ramirez. Congressman Gordon joined them. By the time Jessie returned during the seventh inning stretch, the trio had left the VIP section with a security detail. Another sideline commentator noted how well these "strange bedfellows" were hitting it off and promised to keep track of their movements.

Bogged down by immediate concerns—her unsettled stomach, Guadalupe's machinations, Bobby's confusion—Jessie had let Castilla slip from her radar. When the ESPN cameras next caught up with the dictator and the Keys owner, they were meeting and greeting players in the Cuban dugout. The commentators figured Castilla was taking this opportunity to look over the opponents that his team would face in its home ballpark next week.

Relief pitchers on both sides had taken control of the game after the fifth inning, and the score remained six to five in the Busters' favor in the top of the eighth. Jansen came to bat in the third spot, with two out and nobody on. The scenario quickened my breath: a right-handed hitter who hugged the plate and who had homered in his last at-bat, facing a power-throwing right-hander.

"Watch Petie," I ordered my parents. "He could do something flaky." Dad started to ask me how well I knew him. Pretty well, it turned out. He stepped into the first pitch, and it hit him squarely on his padded elbow.

He dropped the bat, grabbed his elbow, and glared at the pitcher. Ignoring the umpire, who was motioning for him to take first base, Petie stalked toward the mound. As the pitcher prepared to meet him halfway, the catcher grabbed Petie from behind. Jansen fought him off with a violent thrust of his supposedly injured elbow. Players from both benches swarmed onto the field. At first they just glowered at each other. Then a few began pushing and shoving.

"This could turn out to be extremely unfortunate," said one of the commentators. "We're used to seeing this sort of thing in the major leagues, but I was hoping we wouldn't see it here."

"The stakes are certainly higher in this situation," agreed his partner. "In fact, I can see a powder keg waiting to explode."

The managers of both teams, Delgado and Carter Junior, came onto the field, only to glare at one another instead of helping matters. An increasingly worried commentator announced, "Someone in authority has to restore order by any means necessary, even if that takes the police."

Manny had sprinted in from right field and was trying to separate as many potential combatants as he could. Putting his bilingual skills to use, he seemed to be pouring calming messages into every ear. He put his hands on Petie, who scowled at him but backed off. As the two sides disentangled, it looked as if Manny had saved the day. Who else could have bridged the impossible gap between the Washington Filibusters and the Cuban Nationals?

The commentators fell over one another to deify him. My mother seemed to think her new son-in-law had just parted the waters. "He did very well," conceded Dad.

As if those dark matinee idol looks of Manny's aren't enough, I thought, now he's a hotshot diplomat. Everybody's gonna love him for this—not only his current and ex-wives, but every other woman spectator in Cuba and America. Myself included.

But then Wilson Boyd, who had been on deck when the trouble started, inserted himself in Manny's peacemaking path. "This could be bad," I said. Jessie wasn't on camera right now, but I'd have bet money that she was clutching the handles of her seat and biting her lip as she watched this unfold. She knew as well as I did that Boyd liked to stir up Manny's insecurities and set a match to them, just for fun.

Boyd grinned as he said something to Manny. No doubt it was along the lines of, why don't you stop playing Messiah and go back to playing baseball? Whatever the exact comment, Manny took umbrage. He shoved Wilson in the chest, sending him sprawling. Wilson scrambled to his feet and lunged at Manny. Soon the two men were rolling on the ground.

The rumble reignited. Petie Jansen, who had retreated to first base, now rushed over to help his buddy Wilson. Several of Manny's Cuban teammates came to his aid, pulling Boyd and Jansen away from him. As the two teams swarmed onto the field again, punches were thrown. Gun-toting policemen appeared.

The commentators were forced to revise their feel-good story. Order was being restored once more, but now at the point of a gun. Manny the peacemaker had been unmasked as a bit too temperamental for the role.

"Those two Neanderthals, Boyd and Jansen, should be locked up," burst out Mom. "What if they just jeopardized Manny's release?"

"I'm not defending them," I said, "but honestly, they're just being themselves. Two competitive, free-spirited guys who've been thrust into a setting that can't contain them."

Intimidated by the guns, the two sides had separated quickly. The game resumed as if nothing had happened. No one was ejected, and any injuries suffered apparently were minor. President Ramirez and Javy Castilla returned to their respective seats in the stands.

The Filibusters finished off the Cubans with a well-pitched save by Jose Pasqual, perhaps somewhat redeeming his failure in the National League Championship Series. The two teams even managed to line up on the field afterward for the orchestrated handshakes. But postgame comments on the network seemed tentative. The experimental game had come perilously close to exploding in the laboratory. Would it work better when it shifted to the American setting?

"I just hope the Cubans keep their promise to let Manny go," said Mom.

"Oh, they'll let him go," said Dad. "Not that I give a shit if they don't. My only concern is for Jessie."

My father's sudden change of tone startled me. I had never heard him criticize Manny outright. I said, "Get real, Dad. Jessie won't leave Cuba without Manny. I can see her demanding to be thrown into prison herself so she can share his experience. Face it, you're not getting your daughter back without her fiancé—her husband."

"Really, George," added Mom, "you better lose that bigoted attitude before they get home."

This was an eye-opener. My parents must have quarreled previously about Jessie's choice of mate, which would mean I wasn't the only one presumed to have questionable taste in men.

Dad shot back, "Don't call me a bigot, Carol. I can accept one of my daughters marrying a Hispanic. What riles me is the way he got her pregnant before he got around to marrying her."

"Jessie may have had a hand in that too," I said. "I keep telling you, there's no need to worry about her. She has a gift for turning adversity into triumph."

My parents remained worried. After all, Jessie, Manny, and Bobby were still being detained in a foreign land. What might go wrong between now and next week, when the two-game series was scheduled to resume in Miami?

"I know we'll celebrate when we know for sure that the three of them are back on American soil," I said.

"But Manny will still belong to the Cuban team," pointed out Mom. "Will he be free?"

"Not only will he be free," I said, "but he'll be richer than he's ever been, as a soon-to-be member of the Florida Keys. It'll be so close to a done deal by then, he might as well switch uniforms during the seventh inning stretch."

"How do you figure that?" asked Dad.

"Ramirez and Castilla had their heads together during the game. My guess is they were in the process of striking a mega-deal, and even an outright war on the field couldn't have stopped it."

"Good Lord. You really think Castilla's paying off Ramirez for Manny's freedom?" Despite her words, Mom sounded hopeful.

"Not only that. Castilla was in the Cuban dugout, sizing up a number of players. I think his goal is to field an all-Caribbean dream team in Miami—if he can meet Ramirez's price."

"I can't believe that," said Dad. "Castilla was threatening Ramirez on television just a few weeks ago. Even called him 'Little Castro.'"

"Jessie thought at the time he had something up his sleeve. I'm just carrying her theory to its logical conclusion."

Actually, I stopped short of Jessie's notion that Castilla had a hand in Manny's kidnapping. The implications of that were just too mind-boggling.

* * * * *

### Chapter Seven

The following week, my parents took an Amtrak train to south Florida to attend the second game of the United States–Cuba series. Jessie had sent them tickets from the Miami hotel where she was staying with Bobby. She had attached an upbeat note declaring that everything was going "according to plan." We interpreted this to mean that she and Manny expected to begin their married life as soon as he finished his obligations to the Cuban team.

Jessie called me from Miami to say hello, but she seemed reticent about her Cuban experience. She offered me a ticket, which I declined. Tommy would be coming home instead of attending the second game, and I was too busy at work to take time off—so busy that I had been at the office on Martin Luther King Day, a federal holiday.

"What's with that? Your bosses don't believe in honoring Reverend King?"

"I just had a lot of work, and still do," I protested. "God, I can tell your recent adventures haven't changed you. Still interpreting every little thing as encroaching Fascism."

"I thought your agency's budget was submitted in early December, around the time of your miscarriage. Wasn't that the reason you couldn't take off a whole week then?"

"We're getting a supplemental appropriation this year to deal with new threats," I explained. "I have to write up the justifications and prepare our managers for more hearings."

"'New threats?' That's conveniently vague."

As usual, I insisted that my job be taken seriously. "It's called national security, Jess. Why do you think Mom and Dad took the _train_ to Miami? They haven't flown since 9/11. And you might be interested to know that some of the threats have been against stadiums."

Jessie asked if I knew of any measures being taken to secure the Keys ballpark against the expected anti-Ramirez demonstrators from the local Cuban-American community. I clammed up, maintaining that the specifics were secret.

"You still seem on edge," observed Jessie. "Have you thought any more about counseling?"

"Dammit, we've been all through this. I have more than enough people trying to convince me I should either be suicidally depressed or guilt-ridden because I considered having an abortion."

"Are you still being harassed, Randi? I told you to report that doctor to the AMA."

"It's not the doctor now. It's the busybody secretaries in my office. I swear to God I didn't tell anyone I was pregnant, but those two know everything. Caroline is friendly, but Jean is lethal. I'm not sure which one tipped off our employee assistance rep, but now I'm getting bombarded with helpful brochures on the connection between physical and mental health."

"If anyone gets in your face about your personal business," said Jessie, sounding more like herself than she had since she'd left home, "you have my wholehearted permission to spit in theirs."

"I can't take that approach with my office director," I said. "He's normally an uncommunicative little squirt who expects everyone to read his mind. But the other day he held a staff meeting to discuss our upcoming desk audits. He told us that in this day and age, evaluations have to take into account more than just the quality of one's work. For him, the quality of the person counts just as much. I don't know what in hell he meant, but I do know he's got five kids. So he better not find out I ever considered having an abortion."

"Christ, that's ominous. You shouldn't have to worry about that. Aren't there civil service protections against threats, veiled or not?"

I sighed. "We don't have them. Homeland Security is determined to become a brave new agency where the old rules don't apply. Which means the higher-ups are looking to toss out anybody they consider a bad apple. Jean's the senior secretary, and she's hated my guts from the moment I first stepped into the budget office. I guess I'm a threat to her getting ahead. She's a totally unimpressive woman, but somehow she's got the director's ear. Her friendliness with him feeds her delusions of power."

"You just have to make up your mind not to be intimidated by either toxic directors or secretaries."

"Speaking of intimidation," I said, changing the topic, "Detective Washington dropped by the house with a new partner, an African-American woman, to ask me a few more questions about my last contact with Petie Jansen. It seems his old partner, Byrd, has been reassigned. Their relationship must have raised a few eyebrows. When I asked about her, Washington got defensive and snapped that he'd ask the questions."

Jessie found this even more intriguing than the developments at my office. "Washington's been abrasive with me, too, the few times I've talked to him. He's one of those black cops who seem to have problems with white women. He must have his reasons."

"And Byrd was his one chance to get over that? Too bad."

•

Manny and Jessie had another televised reunion in the presence of handshaking American and Cuban officials. This time Mom and Dad were on hand, as well. The young lovers were shown embracing in front of Jessie's Miami hotel, looking far more natural than they had in Cuba. Then they entered the hotel hand in hand, presumably to seal the deal in private.

I tried to be happy for them, but my office colleagues, who expected gloom from me, were getting their wish. I still refused counseling on principle, choosing instead to bury myself in work. I attacked the supplemental budget as if it were an encoded battle plan.

My intensity was infused with paranoia. The White House was about to implement an outsourcing plan for all government agencies. The goal for our department was particularly severe: 50 percent of eligible jobs were to be turned over to private contractors within two years.

Our bosses hadn't wasted any time scheduling desk audits. I received my notification just minutes after rejecting a final appeal by e-mail from an employee assistance counselor who insisted that the program she advocated was "lifesaving."

When a supercilious young "human resources specialist" came to interview me about my job, I kept my temper almost until the end. I explained the intricacies of pulling together budget data from fifteen offices and making sure that the resulting document, often one hundred pages or more, featured accurate numbers and plain-English explanations. He asked why I thought I could do this job better than an outside financial expert. I spoke of my institutional memory and experience and asserted that the job was best performed in a non-partisan fashion.

It was his final question that did me in. Asked if I could point out any colleagues whose positions I thought might be suitable for outsourcing, I smiled at him and said, "Only you."

When I recreated my performance for Jessie, she congratulated me on my wit.

"I'm glad you approve," I said, "and I hope you're prepared to offer me a job at your magazine when I get downsized from my once-cushy government post."

"We could probably find something for you to do. You need a more creative outlet, and I might need somebody to pick up my slack for a while. I thought this would be an exciting time in my life, but it's mostly exhausting."

As she described the lassitude that had overtaken her almost four months into her pregnancy, I hoped I could acquire some of the Superwoman energy that was eluding her.

•

"I used to criticize Mom for giving up her career," confessed Jessie, "but I'm beginning to understand her reasons."

Jessie and I had talked once or twice a day throughout her stay in Florida. Both of us seemed to need the reassurance. "Don't get me wrong," she continued. "I'm so grateful that the nightmare is almost over. My family life is coming together again after I thought it might be destroyed. I've always known that being loved by a good man, and making a life with him, would be essential to me. But I also know that I can't do what Mom did. I need my career."

"Mom had two babies at once," I pointed out. "That would have knocked anybody off their career stride."

"I'm going to have two at once," said Jessie. "Even with the new custody agreement, we'll still have Bobby most of the time. Not that he's much trouble when he's around—so quiet and self-contained for a kid not yet five. It'll be more draining for us when he's in Havana. We'll have to take steps to make sure he's protected."

I asked if she were beginning to sympathize with Deirdre Smith Gordon's position on family versus career. Jessie laughed and expressed her usual contempt for the president's daughter, who made a virtue of not using her education.

Shifting gears, I asked, "If you were a betting woman, who would you like in the game tomorrow?"

"I'll always like whatever team Manny is playing for. So my money's on the Cubans."

"Not for long, though," I said. "We know Castilla wants Manny, don't we? I predict he'll be a Florida Key almost as soon as he takes off the Cuban colors."

"I'll be fine with that," Jessie declared, "if it leads to a World Series ring for us."

"Fine? You'll be on top of the world." I couldn't resist adding, "Of course, we also know there's a price to be paid. Ramirez isn't letting Manny go for free. What kind of payback do you suppose he's getting?"

"Your wheels are obviously turning faster than mine. So why don't you tell me?"

"I suspected you were too distracted during the game in Havana to notice how buddy-buddy Castilla and Ramirez seemed to be," I explained. "They visited the Cuban dugout together, and Castilla took a good, long look at the team. Almost as if he envisioned acquiring some fresh, young studs."

"So what if he does?" said Jessie, sounding tremulous.

"So what do you suppose Ramirez would demand in a deal like that? Maybe a stake in the Keys?"

"If there's a deal like that going down," said Jessie, "it's out of our control. Manny and I will handle whatever we have to once we're together for good."

A moment later, she erupted in dismay at a scene that had popped up on her television. "Oh my God. You've got to turn on ESPN right now. Those two numbskull friends of yours, Boyd and Jansen, are being interviewed about tomorrow's game. Why can't they keep their mouths shut for once? They're not even playing."

I said, "You rag too much on Boyd and Jansen. How much harm can they do?"

Jessie ended the call without responding to that. I picked up my remote and flipped through the sports channels until I found the joint interview. Boyd and Jansen were answering questions about the rumble that had nearly derailed the first game in the historic United States–Cuba series. One reporter asked, "Do you have any regrets about your participation in the scuffle?"

"Hell no," said Jansen. "I play the game hard, but not always smart. That's just me. I ain't gonna change for nobody. I sure wasn't out to impress the Commies—excuse me, I mean our distinguished hosts—with my sweet personality."

When asked if the same kind of trouble was likely to erupt again, Boyd answered, "I think we handled them down there. I can't see the Cubans trying anything on our turf."

Expanding on what he thought had been accomplished the first time, Boyd said, "We did exactly what we went there to do, and that was rescue Manny. We got him away from his ex-wife and back with his new wife, which he oughtta be ecstatic about. He sure acted touchy with me, but that's par for the course."

"It was a bigger deal than just Manny or the game," put in Jansen. "We went there to show the world nobody pushes Americans around."

That prompted one reporter to jump into uncharted waters for a sports network. He asked, "So do you two think that the United States should have tried to conquer Cuba?"

"Why not?" asked Boyd. "The common people down there sure wouldn't mind. I'll bet they'd give their right arms to be free."

"I pretty much conquered the place my own way," remarked Petie Jansen with a smirk.

•

Jessie called me the next morning, two hours before game time. She was still steamed about the Boyd-Jansen press conference. I asked her again why she let their typical boys-will-be-boys banter get to her. I tried to explain the warrior mentality that all outdoorsmen like them seemed to have. Hadn't she liked the compliment Wilson Boyd had paid her? He had said he was sure Manny was "ecstatic" to be reunited with her.

"Our relationship is none of his business," she snapped. "But that's not what really pisses me off. It's the way they both pose as Manny's saviors, trying to make him beholden to them when they really can't stand him."

"Come off it, Jess," I said. "We've been through this before. They're competitive with Manny. That's not the same as hating him."

"I think you know better." She started to say more, but checked herself.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"I'd just like to know why you keep on defending those numbskulls."

Not this again, I thought. I shot back, "And I'd like to know what kind of bug you've got up your ass. I'm getting sick of these indirect accusations."

Jessie went silent, so I pushed on, "You've always thought I was jealous of your relationship with Manny. Well, even if I am, and even if the whole world is, what does it matter? Why can't you just be grateful to have him back?"

"I am grateful," said Jessie, "but I'm also frightened. Now that we're being allowed private time together every day, I'm finally hearing the full story. And I think he might need professional help to get over it."

"Great," I said sarcastically, "maybe he and I can go to counseling together."

"Oh, please, Randi. Manny was confronted in an elevator by a stranger—a woman disguised as a man, he thinks—wearing a mask and carrying a gun. She ordered him to turn around, and then she plugged him with a syringe. Whatever the substance was, it nearly killed him. When he came to, he was lying in his own vomit in an eight-by-ten prison cell with no idea where he was."

"My God, Jessie. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—" I struggled to absorb these details, which had not yet come to public light. Like most observers, I had begun to take an abstract view of the kidnapping, as if it were some sort of diplomatic maneuver rather than the brutal crime it was. I realized it had been romanticized by the media, especially after Manny turned up in the presidential palace within arm's length of his ex-wife.

Jessie continued, "You understand, don't you, why I need to find out who's responsible? And I mean everyone who's responsible."

"Yes, of course. But why're you getting hostile with _me_?"

She said coldly, "I just can't overlook that you've been known to hang out with the immigrant-haters at the Tex Belton League."

"All I ever intended to do at the League was take a few shooting lessons from my husband. If there was a plot brewing against Manny, why would I know anything about it?"

"I never said you would. All I'm saying is you should get your head out of the sand about your gun-loving friends. The weapon that was used on Manny—" She caught her breath, as if picturing that scene in the elevator.

"What about it?" I demanded.

"Manny said it looked like the ones Wilson Boyd demonstrates on his TV show."

"You don't know anything about gun models," I pointed out. "And I'm sure Manny doesn't, either. They probably all look the same to him."

"And how come you know so damned much about them?" Jessie retorted.

This guilt by association was getting on my nerves. I had simply made an effort to share one of Tommy's interests by allowing him to teach me how to shoot various types of weapons. Did that make me an accomplice to a kidnapping?

Jessie continued, "What about Petie Jansen's other girlfriend, the woman he called on his cell phone after the championship game? Supposedly he was too drunk and angry to know what he was doing when he let her into the tunnel. After Manny vanished, so did she. So who do you suppose she was?"

"I've been through this already with the cops. Christ, I was hauled down to the station just because that woman and I were both in Petie's phone Rolodex. I'm supposed to know who she was? Why don't you tell me? Didn't you cultivate some of those Cuban embassy types as sources while you were researching that famous article of yours? When are you gonna admit that Manny's kidnapper could have been one of your sources?"

"I just can't believe that could be true." But this reminder brought Jessie up short. She had to pause to collect herself.

"Randi, I'm just putting two and two together. The Belton League, where you love to let off steam by shooting guns, is harboring some kind of militia. Its two most prominent members are friends of yours. I believe the militia may have plotted with some officials of the Cuban embassy to pull off the kidnapping. So why am I questioning you? Think about it. You got yourself entangled in a love triangle with a Belton Leaguer who admits to having a Cuban lover."

"Let me get this straight," I said. "You think the Tex Belton League is in bed with the Cuban embassy, and I'm connected to both through a love triangle. Talk about strange bedfellows."

Still, it had a weird kind of logic. I was about to admit as much to Jessie when she suddenly apologized for her craziness. She explained that she was so concerned about Manny's state of mind that she had lashed out at the handiest target. On that note, she ended our conversation, saying it was time for her to meet Mom and Dad and get to the ballpark. She reassured me that we'd talk again after the game.

•

Maybe part two of the series would feature a real blowup instead of the mere fisticuffs that had erupted during part one, I thought. As I settled down to watch the telecast, I was still sunk in gloom. Tommy had come home a day earlier than expected last week, sporting a suntan and without apparent regrets about missing another week of adventures under a warm January sun. I had returned from work that day to find him lounging on the living room couch, and we'd enjoyed a quickie reunion of our own.

But I doubted he had rushed home just to see me. He said he needed to get back to the office, but I suspected instead that he had become uncomfortable in close quarters with Madeline Carter. When I asked him how he had contributed to the negotiations in Cuba, he only said that he couldn't discuss it.

While we watched the first couple of innings, I tried to tempt him to brag about his experience. "So tell me, did you get a chance to speak with President Ramirez?"

"Actually, yeah. He said hello to me at a reception."

"Did you confer with anyone else of importance?" I persisted. "Or were you limited to advising Madeline?"

"Hardly limited. I accompanied Madeline to several private meetings with Guadalupe Ramirez."

"So what's the future first lady of Cuba really like?" I coaxed.

"A lot like Madeline," chuckled Tommy. "They started out pretty hostile with each other. But after a while, they seemed to bond."

"Soul sisters under the skin?"

"I guess. Although I also got the feeling they could turn on each other again in an instant."

Tommy clammed up at this point and soon bolted into his study to start pounding out another position paper for Donald Bushnell's Senate campaign.

Once again, the ESPN cameras focused on the VIP section, which seemed less tense and crowded than it had been in Havana. President Ramirez was there, accompanied by a few uniformed bodyguards and other dignitaries, but Alfonso Junior and Guadalupe had stayed home. The Miami police had prepared to contain a demonstration from the local Free Cuba movement, but if this protest materialized, the network did not cover it.

I noticed that Ramirez again conferred with Javy Castilla in the stands. Belying her testiness on the phone, Jessie looked relaxed in the presence of Mom and Dad—and the absence of any maternal competition over Bobby. Her stepson had lost the whininess he'd shown at the previous game and seemed to be taking in his surroundings like a normal, happy kid.

The game itself proved to be another high-scoring affair, but unmarred by violence this time. Wilson Boyd was a guest commentator in the broadcast booth during the middle innings.

Boyd avoided politics in favor of solid baseball commentary. He explained the Cuban concept of "little ball" and noted that Manny was the undisputed powerhouse of that lineup. When Manny homered, as he had in Cuba, Boyd gave an admiring analysis of his "sweet swing."

"No question, the dude's a natural cleanup hitter for most teams. Everybody knows how pissedexcuse me, I mean tickedhe was when I took that job away from him on the Busters. I woulda been, too, if I was him."

Later, Boyd defended a Keys player who had slid into second base with his spikes aimed at the second baseman's knees, disrupting the throw to first and preventing a double play. That, he claimed, was teaching the Cubans how to play in the major leagues, even if it got their dukes up momentarily.

Boyd grabbed my waning attention when he mentioned that he was planning a quick motorcycle tour of south Florida with Petie Jansen. As soon as he got off the air, he was to hop on his bike and head to a rendezvous with Jansen.

But just before Wilson was scheduled to leave the booth after the sixth inning, he announced in a shaky voice, "Man, I can't believe the text message I just got from Petie. Seems he's smashed up his bike, not to mention hisself. Right now he's lying on an emergency room gurney with a busted leg."

•

The news about Petie Jansen overshadowed the Cubans' victory over the Keys—six to five, the same score by which the Busters had prevailed in Havana. News reports about the accident later that day focused on the grisly compound fracture Jansen had suffered, involving both the tibia and fibula. His upcoming baseball season certainly was shot, and his entire career hinged on the outcome of surgery on the leg.

Feeling numb, I called the last cell phone number I had for Petie, which didn't work. While I was considering the wording of a get-well note, I saw an update on the ESPN Web site. It seemed there had been a woman riding behind Petie when he'd crashed his motorcycle. She had come away with only a concussion and bruises.

When I told Tommy what had happened, he tried to joke, "Lucky that wasn't you on the bike with him."

I didn't laugh, and we didn't discuss it again. The woman turned out to be a bleached-blonde Miss Florida of ten or fifteen years back, a married woman who insisted Petie was just giving her a lift home from a personal appearance. I decided not to contact him, at least not for now.

•

The Cuban government tried to close the book on the kidnapping by issuing a statement expressing regret for Manny's suffering and wishing the Chavez family well. He was paid the equivalent of five hundred American dollars for the games he had played in a Cuban uniform.

When Jessie, Manny, and Bobby returned from Florida, they moved in with Manny's parents in Vienna, Virginia. On the phone with me that evening, Jessie insisted that everything was fine, but she sounded tired and stressed. She assured me that she and Manny still planned to have the full-scale wedding they had originally scheduled for this past November, but the new date was uncertain.

She also said that Manny was making up for lost time on his off-season conditioning program at George Mason University. His agent, Christian Flores, was fielding contract offers from three or four teams, supposedly, including the Keys but not the Busters. Once this was resolved, house hunting lay ahead. Jessie's new attitude was that life had become too full to dwell on the traumatic events of the past three months.

"Manny will sign with the Keys," I predicted. "I'd bet my own salary on that. You'll find your dream house in Miami."

"We don't know anything for sure yet," said Jessie. "Just that the Keys have offered a five-year deal with all the perks. And it turns out Christian has known Javy Castilla since they were kids. They played together in the Mexican League. I had no idea."

She changed the subject. "Looks like your militia buddies have done it again. I'm sure their motorcycle riding is in violation of their contracts, even if half the players in the league do it. Jansen has already paid the piper, but the Filibusters really ought to fine and suspend Boyd—especially after he bragged about his joyriding on national television."

"They can't suspend Boyd. They need him too much. And besides," I added, "you still don't understand Wilson and Petie. They're not interchangeable, just because they're both country boys who like guns, drinking, and fighting."

"Since you obviously understand them and I don't, why don't you explain the difference?"

It struck me then that my sister was losing her journalistic perspective. More and more these days, her viewpoints were being filtered through her personal biases. A good reporter wouldn't reduce such complex personalities as Boyd and Jansen to abstractions. Was this self-absorption an effect of pregnancy?

"Let me explain it this way," I said. "Wilson likes Manny and considers him a friend, even when they're rolling on the ground. Petie doesn't like Manny and won't even pretend to. Wilson is an extrovert, comfortable in his own skin, while Petie, for whatever reason, is an angry man. That sums them up. And by the way, I don't believe either of them was behind the kidnapping. Do you?"

Jessie struggled with the question, not replying for a while. Finally, she said, "Look, I can buy that Petie's basically a drunken fool and his own worst enemy. It's Boyd I don't trust. When he spouted off on television about invading Cuba and fighting the Commies while Manny was in their hands, he could've caused a tragedy."

"He meant well," I insisted. "He just can't help his big mouth." Failing to convince Jessie, I tried to convince myself.

•

Off-season developments came to a head during the first week of February. In a flurry of deals, Javy Castilla bolstered his infield, outfield, starting rotation, and bullpen. He signed the three players, including Manny, whose families he had been courting on the last day of the Busters-Keys championship series the past fall. Then, in a stunning international coup, he announced the signing of three members of the Cuban national team. It was the first time a Major League team had acquired Cuban players who were not defectors. Manny's agent negotiated several of these contracts, which radically changed the face of the Keys.

In a statement issued from his official residence in Havana, President Alfonso Ramirez congratulated the players, blessed their efforts during the upcoming season, and declared himself a Florida Keys fan.

I called Jessie to congratulate her on Manny's contract, which would guarantee nothing less than lifetime security. She must be excited, I added, that Manny was joining a team that now looked powered-up and deep enough to take on even the World Series champion New York Broadways, and then stay on top for years.

Jessie sounded more stunned than ecstatic. "It's a lot to absorb all at once. I never honestly thought we'd be putting down roots in Florida instead of here."

"I'd still like to know what kind of kickback Ramirez is getting for leasing out his players," I said. "Someone should be looking into that."

If Jessie had been on her game, she would have taken my words as a personal challenge. Instead she replied passively, "Maybe someone should."

•

Jessie kept assuring me that everything was fine, although she was still troubled by nightmares. In past years, the approach of spring training had signaled a time of renewal and optimism. It was mid-February, so those feelings were sure to kick in soon.

Tommy and I saw her and Manny one Sunday at Mom and Dad's house, after the happy couple had returned from their contract-signing ceremony in Miami. Looking hale and hearty, they professed themselves too busy to stay for dinner. When I gave Manny the usual sisterly peck on the cheek, I admit I was slightly aroused by his charming grin, his one-day growth of beard, and his restored manliness. But I suppressed my hormones, since I had every reason to believe that Manny and Jessie had emerged from their crisis with amazing resilience, more in love than ever and poised to move forward.

I wasn't totally up to snuff myself, though. My relationship with Tommy was on a roller coaster, moved by empty energy. Sometimes when we were making love, I allowed myself to wonder, just briefly, if Petie had received the belated get-well note I'd eventually sent.

At work, I was wearing myself out trying to demonstrate how essential I was—and I had finally submitted to the officially sanctioned counselor. She insisted I must grieve sincerely for my baby in order to move on.

"You should have told the woman to piss off," said Jessie over lunch one day. "If she asks to see you again, tell her you'll find somebody without such an obvious agenda."

Oh great, I thought. Just what I need—free advice from my blissfully pregnant sister. Then she startled me by adding, "If you find someone good, maybe I'll join you."

I tried to avoid showing my surprise, since we were in a public place. I had invited her to lunch at the Capital Grille, an upscale restaurant two blocks from my office and a well-known watering hole for local celebrities. So far we had gawked at a U.S. Senator and a local newscaster, while Jessie herself drew some stares.

I figured this was our last chance for a serious conversation before she and Manny departed for their new life. Jessie had looked fine when she'd walked into the restaurant, sporting black stretch maternity slacks and a blue silk blouse that seemed to accentuate her expanding midriff. We had ordered our favorite grilled chicken and pasta, and she'd been attacking hers with a healthier appetite than mine. I saw no need to ask her the recurring question of how she felt.

And so I was unprepared for any hint that she or Manny might need counseling. But before I could pursue this, we were approached by a golden-haired, apple-cheeked celebrity on the local baseball scene. It was "Trader Joe" Ellis, the general manager of the Washington Filibusters. A cell phone was planted in his ear. I sat back to watch this encounter, curious to see if Jessie would betray any ill feelings over the Busters' willingness to part with Manny.

As he arrived at our table, Ellis wrapped up his phone conversation and shut the device. He shook hands with both of us. "I saw you come in, Jessica, and just wanted to take this opportunity to offer you and Manny my personal good wishes. We appreciate everything Manny did for our ball club, and I know the two of you are moving on to further great accomplishments with the Keys."

Jessie responded primly, "Thank you, Joe. You've always been fair with us, and we'll cherish our time with the Filibusters, even if it ended a little abruptly. We're not naïve. We know it's all part of a business plan." She nodded toward the cell phone he still cupped in his left hand.

"I'm certainly glad you understand our need to reduce payroll in some areas and develop younger players. Manny is well suited to a veteran team like the Keys, where he'll have a terrific shot at a World Series title right away."

"We hope so," said Jessie. She couldn't resist adding, "Although, I noticed you just acquired Ron Olgesby from the Keys. Not sure how he fits into your youth movement."

Ellis was about to reply when his phone started vibrating.

"I better let you get back to work," said Jessie. "Who knows, that call could be about a new center fielder. I know that's a priority."

I jumped in my seat. Was Jessie's remark a subtle jab at my illicit relationship, which had smashed up in more ways than one?

"It's certainly a priority," said Ellis, "although our hearts go out to Petie. It's the ironic part of our business. One man's misfortune often becomes another man's opportunity."

"I've heard there's a slew of talented kids in your farm system just clamoring for that chance," my sister remarked.

Ellis only smiled weakly and made his escape before Jessie had a chance to opine further on who the Busters' starting center fielder should be. "A slew of Anglo kids, is what I really meant," she said to me, watching him stride back to his table. "In accordance with Carter's plan to bleach the team."

I asked, "If that's what you were thinking, why didn't you say so? You're not on your toes as a journalist, or you would've given him a fair chance to refute it."

"If I'm not on my toes, I'm sure it's temporary." Jessie leaned back in her seat and sighed.

Had she backed off the story she had begun to sniff out shortly before Manny's kidnapping—the bleaching of the Busters? Her suddenly weary look prompted me to ask how she felt, after all. She had started massaging her stomach, as if the mildly spiced chicken was getting to her. As soon as I asked, she straightened up.

"My health is great. I have tons more energy than I did just a couple of weeks ago. How I feel isn't the problem."

"There's a problem?" I tried not to sound impatient. "What's wrong?"

Instead of responding, Jessie imparted a different piece of news—one that seemed to confirm she was still sitting on top of the world.

"Deirdre Smith Gordon called again yesterday. Seems the baby shower idea is on hold. She invited Manny and me to lunch at the White House next Monday."

"That's wonderful." Startled, I swallowed a large piece of lettuce whole.

"Not so wonderful. Manny doesn't want to go."

I coughed and took a sip of water. "Why on earth not?"

Again she sidestepped my question. "I told her Manny might not be able to make it. She suggested I bring you in his place. Said she'd love to catch up with us both."

"Oh, Jess," I exclaimed like a giddy schoolgirl, "can we go? It'd be fun." At last, I thought, an adventure to shake me out of my doldrums.

"I know you'd get a kick out of it. But I'm not sure it's a good time to confront Deirdre."

"Christ, why not?" I was ready to reach out and shake her. "Just because you don't like her politics? What else is new? Why throw away a chance like this?"

I reflected on her history of blowing opportunities only to end up with something better. Her whole college career was a case in point; she'd left a perfectly successful academic and journalistic setup at Maryland and fled to Florida, which had ultimately opened major doors. Still, what could be more prestigious than this invitation to the White House? I decided to take a self-sacrificing stand.

"You should make Manny go with you to Deirdre's luncheon. If he doesn't, it'll look like a snub."

"Nobody can make a Hispanic man do anything," Jessie said.

"Manny isn't that kind of Hispanic man, and you know it." I reminded her that this was the sweet-tempered guy who often brought her flowers for no reason, who had taken ridicule from some of his Busters teammates for denouncing shooting sports, who had cried in court at the prospect of being separated from his son.

Jessie sighed. "He isn't the same man he was before the kidnapping."

"But he seemed fine when I saw him." He was handsomer than ever, by my impression.

"He's so ... moody."

"You have a moody husband?" I scoffed. "Welcome to the club."

But we both knew her husband wasn't moody by nature. I added, "He's been through a lot. Give him time."

"Time is what we don't have. We leave for spring training in a week. Manny has a new team, a new owner, and a new manager and coaches to get used to. I suspect the manager will be one of his toughest hurdles."

"Why?" I asked. I was aware that the Keys' former manager, a rather elderly skipper of eight years, had retired after the World Series. Javy Castilla had decided to replace him with Felipe Rivera, a teammate from his Mexican League days who also happened to be his brother-in-law.

"Rivera's never managed before," said Jessie. "And I've always been suspicious of these family hires. It looks like the beginning of a Castilla dynasty."

"How could it be any worse for Manny than the Carter dynasty was?"

Jessie sighed again and shifted back to the original topic by enumerating her upcoming tasks. She needed to find temporary housing for herself, Manny, and Bobby in Florida and then make plans for a permanent home. She and Manny would be parents again before the season was half done. Where was their recovery time coming from?

"So your guy's acting a little moody," I said. "He just happens to be more sensitive than most macho men. Trust me, it's an attractive quality."

"But he's also angry," said Jessie. "He watches Wilson Boyd's silly show on the Outdoor Channel every week—God only knows why—and the jerk sets him off. Boyd's always spouting some shit about sissies who don't like hunting and fishing. Recently he knocked Manny for refusing all invitations to come on his show and learn how to shoot. He was implying that if Manny knew about firearms, maybe he would've been able to defend himself when the kidnappers struck. Or maybe they wouldn't have messed with him at all."

"That's totally absurd. Wilson had to be kidding."

"I don't think so, because he kept piling it on. He even speculated that if Manny has been traumatized, he might be afraid of batted balls."

"It's all part of the typical proud-to-be-a-redneck spiel," I said.

"Well, Manny's not amused. He told me he'd like to go on Boyd's show to demonstrate how to punch out an obnoxious loudmouth."

I laughed at that scenario, but Jessie frowned. "The angrier he gets, the angrier I get about everything. Randi, I know how hard he's trying, but he hasn't found himself yet. Sometimes it's like he never really came back from Cuba." She slammed down her water glass and thrust out her chin. I thought I could see her journalistic spirit reviving before my eyes.

"That's why I can't let the investigation drop, no matter how tired I get at times or how many people think I should. And that's also the reason I can't trust myself to accept Deirdre's invitation. I'd be tempted to pop off or accuse her of something. And that would be the wrong time and place."

"What would Deirdre know, anyway?" I asked. "She claims to be just a housewife. If you're determined to probe her Castilla connection, it's her husband you really need to question. And later on, who knows? Maybe you get a chance to question her dad."

"I'll start with her and work my way up. But not until I have a solid lead."

"Wow," I said. "I can't wait to read the investigative piece that comes out of this."

Jessie went silent. We finished our lunch and ordered chocolate cake and coffee for dessert. Jessie sipped her decaf and eyed her cake.

She set down her cup abruptly. "You're not kidding about the investigative piece. Manny wants me to do it again. I mean, tell the whole story from his point of view."

"How's that possible?" I asked. "I thought he was unconscious from the time he was plugged with the needle until he woke up in Havana."

"Actually, he regained consciousness at one point."

"What're you saying?" I put down my fork.

Jessie's eyes had caught fire. "He became aware that he was blindfolded and strapped down to a gurney in a moving vehicle. The vehicle stopped, and he was transferred to another. He heard voices and got a sense of his surroundings. At that point somebody must have noticed he was coming to, because he got plugged again."

Jessie attacked her cake now, as if relishing the story that could be built on these details. In a discreet voice, I demanded more.

She leaned toward me as far as she could. "He knows he heard both Hispanic and Southern redneck voices. He believes it was a Cuban woman who abducted him at the ballpark and a group of at least three Cuban men who transported him south. But then they handed him off to a different crew."

Realization struck me. "I get it. You're trying to connect the Cubans with the Tex Belton League. But how can Manny identify people he didn't see?"

"He can't. But he's sure he can identify the transfer point. It was Smith-Carter country."

"He felt the vibes of southwestern Virginia? When was he ever there before?"

Despite my skepticism, I had to admit the notion seemed plausible. My mind easily concocted a string of militia outposts stretching through Virginia, the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida, all primed to help ferry Manny back to the tropical hellhole "where he belonged."

"You're getting hopped up," I warned Jessie. She had polished off her cake and taken several gulps of coffee.

"I may need to be," she said, "if I'm about to tackle a story that the U.S. government would rather I left alone."

"I'll bet you can taste a Pulitzer this time."

My sister set down her cup and smiled at me.

•

Jessie managed to put off Deirdre without offending her. Since she and Manny were about to leave for the Keys' spring training site at Pompano Beach, she suggested postponing the White House visit. Manny's new team would be in DC the first week of April to open the season against his old team. That would be a more convenient time.

I suspected the delay would give Jessie a chance to investigate a few things. After three weeks in Florida, she came north to spend several days with Mom and Dad. I dropped by one evening to find out what she was up to. Sensing her reticence in our parents' presence, I suggested we take a ride in my car.

I drove all the way around the Capital Beltway, which took over an hour. During the trip, I learned that Jessie had been visiting the Cuban embassy in northwest DC. She had spoken to a few people who admitted a passing acquaintance with Keys owner Javy Castilla. However, she had made no progress in ferreting out the identity of the mysterious Maria who had contacted Petie Jansen after the championship series game.

"What's so surprising about Castilla dealing with the Cuban embassy?" I asked. "There must be tons of paperwork involved in hiring three Cuban ballplayers for the Keys."

Jessie replied, "I know perfectly well Castilla's no paperwork guy. He's a man of action. Somehow he maneuvered world events to get what he wanted."

I reminded Jessie that her diplomatic sources represented the interests of a Communist dictatorship. They were unlikely to maintain a close relationship with a billionaire baseball owner. Jessie argued that pockets as deep as Castilla's couldn't help but turn at least a few heads.

I said, "Okay, but if you're so convinced the kidnapping plot originated at the embassy, how do you intend to prove it?"

"The embassy's official position is that Manny's kidnapping was a great thing for Cuba—although they sympathize with our suffering, of course. They say it taught the United States a well-deserved lesson. But I've detected private misgivings."

"What kind of misgivings?"

"I think there're differences of opinion about President Ramirez. Some are uneasy that he may have sold out to Castilla. No one will say exactly what Ramirez got in exchange for his ballplayers—big bucks, or a piece of the Keys, or maybe both."

Jessie paused again, measuring her next statement. "I still believe Castilla was behind the kidnapping. I think he told a few trusted embassy officials what he wanted done, and that he didn't want to know the details. And now he's ready to clean up with the new-look Caribbean Keys."

"Let me get this straight. You think Castilla used Cuban diplomats to arrange Manny's kidnapping and later bribed the Cuban president to get him back?" I grappled with the implications. "You'll never be able to prove it."

She gave me her best "we'll see about that" look. I knew she wouldn't rest until she knew whether Manny's new employer was guilty of a monstrous crime against him.

"I'm finished with the embassy for now," she said. "I'd like you to drive me out to that Tex Belton place. First thing tomorrow, if possible."

"What do you think you're gonna accomplish at the shooting range?" I asked.

"Maybe I'll nail me some rednecks."

•

Jessie and I waited until Sunday morning, a relatively slow time, to visit the Belton League branch in Upper Marlboro. When we got there, we encountered a camera crew. Wilson Boyd was using the shooting range to tape the season finale of his TV show for the Outdoor Channel. Both Jessie and I were mildly surprised that Busters management had judged this important enough to give him the weekend off from spring training in Viera, Florida.

"Perfect!" exclaimed Jessie. "Just the man I want to talk to. We'll wait until he's got a free moment."

"Have you thought about what you're gonna say to him?" I asked. "You're on shaky ground to accuse him of participating in the kidnapping."

"I'm not here to accuse anybody."

But it seemed to me that Jessie was pumped up to do just that.

Once his taping was finished, Wilson Boyd strode toward us with a grin. Despite the chilly weather, he was wearing his camouflage jacket open over a white T-shirt. His tight-fitting pants accentuated a slight gut. He removed his Busters cap as he greeted us and smoothed down his thinning hair. He shook our hands and then kissed us on our respective cheeks. I could tell Jessie was surprised at how charming he could be.

"I'm real glad to see you ladies," he drawled. "Especially you, Jessica, since I don't remember you being here before. I always enjoy introducing women to our League, and you two are a sight for sore eyes, compared to most of my students. Too bad you didn't get here an hour or so earlier. Maybe I coulda given you my brand of shooting lessons while the cameras were still rolling."

Wilson seemed to have no inkling that we were here for any purpose other than curiosity or to say hello. Jessie was knocked off her stride. "Looks like you've got quite a nice second career going with the TV gig," she observed.

"I ain't pretending to be no matinee idol. I'm just promoting responsible gun use, 'cause it's important. And I dig having other ballplayers on as guests. I woulda liked to snare Manny for a program or two, but it turns out he hates guns. Which is too bad, 'cause he coulda been my token Hispanic." Wilson grinned teasingly.

"So you came north this weekend just to wrap up the show?" I asked before Jessie could react.

"Yeah. Well, I also visited Petie at his rehab place yesterday."

Wilson bore down on me with his intense eyes, forcing me to ask, "How's he doing?"

"Same old foulmouthed bastard as always. He thinks he's gonna be ready to play by mid-season, and nobody dares contradict him."

He turned his gaze on Jessie. "Listen, I been thinking I might owe you and Manny an apology."

This time she was nonplussed by his directness. "Well, yes, I think you do. Manny doesn't care for some of the remarks you've made about him on your show." Seeing that Boyd looked confused, she snapped, "Like implying he was a wimp who needed guys like you to rescue him. That was belittling."

"Damn, that's not what I meant at all," he responded. "C'mon, I was just having some fun with him like I always do. People make fun of me all the time and I don't mind."

"Yeah, but nobody calls you a wimp," Jessie pointed out.

"I didn't really call Manny that. Look, it ain't his fault he got mixed up in some catfight between his ex and you. If anything, it makes me jealous. Most of us would kill to be that hot."

Wilson breezed on, not noticing that Jessie had frowned at his "catfight" remark. "If he got post-traumatic whaddaya call it from the kidnapping, that's 'cause he's a sensitive type. I ain't ever likely to get that myself, no matter what happens to me, 'cause I got a hide like a buffalo's. But trust me, all the lady sports fans I know prefer gentlemen athletes with soulful eyes like Manny's. Even my own wife thinks Manny's an absolute dreamboat. She'd run off with him in a minute."

"Then what did you mean when you said you owed us an apology?" asked Jessie.

"I mean we didn't do all we coulda done to avenge him in Cuba. We may be just ballplayers, but we had the whole fucking U.S. military—excuse my French—behind us. Instead it turned into a tropical vacation—which was nice, don't get me wrong. And at least we did our part to free Manny and those three Cuban ballplayers Castilla snared for his club. But we coulda freed the whole blasted nation if we set our minds to it. Maybe even put down that Ramirez clan for good."

"I appreciate that, Wilson," said Jessie, "but I still have to ask you this. Do you know of anybody at the Tex Belton League—any of its affiliates—who might have hated Manny enough to take part in his kidnapping?"

Wilson's eyes widened. "Are you shitting me?" He quickly apologized again for his language and began to reflect.

"This is important," pursued Jessie. "How about the group in southwest Virginia?"

"Tex Belton's son, Tex Junior, runs the headquarters down there. He's a pal of mine. He sounds off about illegal immigrants from time to time, but that don't make him no kidnapper. C'mon, that's pretty crazy."

"Isn't he a frustrated ballplayer?" asked Jessie.

"Well, yeah, that's true. Never got out of the low minor leagues. Could be bitter about that, I guess. But I never heard him say nothing against Manny."

I knew Jessie's wheels were turning as she thanked Wilson for his help. After we left, I asked her what she thought of him now.

"Nicer than I realized," she said. "Almost a gentleman, in his own weird way. But I still don't trust him. He has psycho eyes."

•

Two days before Jessie was scheduled to return to Pompano Beach, she came to dinner at my house. While I was in the kitchen waiting on a pot of boiling spaghetti and stirring a pan full of meat sauce, I overheard some strained conversation between her and Tommy in the living room. I could tell she wanted to broach a sensitive subject but couldn't quite find the words. Giving up, she barged into the kitchen and insisted on helping me toss the salad.

Once the three of us were seated at the dining room table, she continued to fidget. "Just spill it, Jessie," I ordered. "You won't offend Tommy or me. We've already hashed out our most painful stuff."

"If you say so," said Jessie, turning to Tommy. "I'm sorry to bring this up, but I do have an important reason for asking. Are you and Madeline Carter still close? Personally or professionally?"

I needed to hear the answer to this, too. Tommy chewed carefully and swallowed. "We still have a business relationship. But it's intermittent now."

"Would you mind telling me why you or she backed off?"

Tommy glanced at me. "I backed off for Randi's sake, of course. But I never had much of a personal relationship with Madeline—I'm small potatoes to her. Besides, there are philosophical differences."

Jessie perked up. This was what she was digging for, not dope on our marriage. "Are you still working on her husband's Senate campaign?"

"Off and on. It was never a formal arrangement."

"So, what went wrong?" she persisted. "What were these philosophical differences?"

Tommy looked uncomfortable. Finally, he offered, "Madeline has ... a bit of a violent streak."

"No shit?" I said, failing to restrain my laughter. "How do you know? Did she ever hit you or throw things at you?"

"She only threatened to," said Tommy, giving way to mirth himself.

This opened the floodgates. With our prompting, Tommy began to dissect the political world that he had been inhabiting. He believed the Smith administration had become increasingly divided between militants and more reluctant warriors, with the president himself swaying back and forth. All "Smithies" believed in being armed to the teeth and ready to fight whenever necessary, but they differed in their definition of what was necessary. The hard-liners who advocated picking frequent fights were also the ones most inclined to anoint militia movements as legitimate political organizations. They were determined to avoid the quagmires and open-ended peacekeeping missions that had bogged down previous administrations, as those did not lend themselves to decisive victories.

President Smith, who had never served in the armed forces, had been a philosophical warrior when he first took office. Fueled by a few early successes, he had gotten Cuba in his sights, a target that required more moxie than the average brush war. His advisers in the uniformed services had tried to talk him down, but the chicken hawks in his immediate circle were influential too.

Johnson Carter, a longtime friend of Smith's and a former Marine, must have weighed in. Recently faced with the line in the sand—the prospect of sacrificing Manny and possibly others to conquer the tiny island—Carter had apparently lost his nerve. Javy Castilla, a former Air Force pilot, may have wavered on the issue, but ultimately he agreed with Carter. Instead of pushing for a fight, Castilla had ended up shaking hands with Ramirez on a business deal that would benefit both hugely.

"How about Madeline? What was her stand on Cuba?" I asked.

Tommy laughed nervously. "I think Madeline's the warmonger of the Carter family. Her take on every problem, big or small, is to fight it out or issue threats. I tried to convince her that Manny's kidnapping didn't require a military response."

"And she handles personal problems the same way?" I asked.

"I can't say for sure. All I know is she feels most comfortable when she has loaded guns close at hand." Fear and admiration mingled in Tommy's voice.

"Now we're getting somewhere," exclaimed Jessie. "I'm more and more convinced Manny's kidnapping was a plot cooked up between Cubans and militant Smithies. But which ones? Tom, your honest opinion. Who do you think had the means and the motivation?"

"It's tough to say," said Tommy. The question made him pause and wipe his brow. "Many people could have benefited without being perpetrators."

"I agree. But who was in the best position to perpetrate the situation?" asked Jessie. "What sort of person could bring the embassy and the militia together? I can't forget that both Javy Castilla and Wilson Boyd went on television and advocated attacking Cuba while Manny was a prisoner there. As if they were trying to get him executed."

"Even if Castilla and Boyd came across the plot in the circles they move in," said Tommy, "that's not enough to indict them."

I said, "Knowing Wilson Boyd, I think he would've laughed it off as a big joke if he had heard about it. Castilla, I'm not so sure."

"They were both overdramatic about avenging Manny," declared Jessie. "That's why I plan to keep after them."

Tommy got up abruptly and went into the kitchen to start loading the dishwasher. Jessie called after him, "Is it true what I kept hearing? That Madeline and Guadalupe got along like soul sisters during their meetings in Havana?"

"I wouldn't go that far," said Tommy, returning to the dining room to grab some more dirty dishes. "They started off pretty hostile, but I think they ended up respecting each other as powers behind the throne. I saw both of them demonstrate that they could pick up the phone practically any time and get through to the chiefs of staff of their respective presidents. They acted pretty bossy on those calls, too. It blew my mind."

"It must have." I couldn't help sounding a little accusatory as I added, "You never told me they were that amazing."

Perhaps regretting this revelation, Tommy hightailed it back to the kitchen.

"Speaking of powers behind the throne," said Jessie, "I've decided to pursue the White House luncheon with Deirdre Smith Gordon, next time I'm in town. I figure it's the quickest way to get close to the inner recesses of power."

"Absolutely you should go," I agreed. "If anybody can penetrate Deirdre's sweet façade, it's you. Although maybe nobody can."

"Now there's a project," laughed Jessie. "Can you think of any other feats I might attempt this time around?"

Tommy returned to the dining room and answered for me. "Just off the top of my head, I hear Petie Jansen is at a rehab facility downtown, and no doubt entertaining lady visitors."

I choked on the last of my wine as I said, "What's the point of questioning Petie? He'll just stick to his story—that he was stumbling drunk and out of it when the kidnapping went down."

Jessie and Tommy agreed that this was more than likely. We dropped the subject as we relaxed over the ice cream I brought out for dessert.

•

The next evening, I found myself driving with Jessie around northwest DC, trying to locate Jansen's rehab place. "Tell me again, what's our excuse for dropping in on Petie?"

"There's no reason why we can't pass ourselves off as concerned friends."

"I've only spoken to him once since I miscarried his child," I said, "and he really had nothing helpful to say about it. Although he did finally send me a get-well card with no message. Just his signature, like an autograph. So what'll I say to him now? And what're you gonna ask him?"

"While you're getting some closure with him, I'll be formulating my questions."

I pulled into a parking garage within reasonable walking distance of the facility. As I took a ticket from the meter, I noted that this adventure was likely to cost us a cool twenty bucks. It had better pay off.

When we got there, we gave our names to a wary receptionist at the front desk. She buzzed Jansen's room, and in a moment she got the go-ahead to direct us there. After negotiating a maze of hallways, nurses' stations, and medical carts, we found the large, private room and were motioned in by a guard.

"Well, well. If you two ain't a sight for sore eyes."

I could have said the same thing about him. Gone was the hermit look he had been cultivating at the time of his accident. Instead of taking to the woods to hunt deer, he had been forced to concentrate on getting fit and salvaging his baseball career. His blonde hair was closely cropped, his face clean shaven, his body trim. The cast on his right leg barely hindered him from grabbing a crutch, hobbling forward, and kissing us on our respective cheeks.

Petie had greeted us with the same words and gestures as Wilson Boyd, but with less sincerity. He gave me a wink as if to say, "I know what you really want is to jump me right now."

"Thanks for your card," I said, hoping he would at least acknowledge our past.

"Yeah, you too. I guess you know I'm not exactly a man of words. Sorry about that." He turned to Jessie. "So, how's Manny doing?"

"That's why I'm here, Petie. Even though he's safely home, I still have a lot of questions about what happened to him."

"I ain't exactly the FBI. Why're you asking me?"

"You admitted to letting a Cuban woman into the tunnel that day. I understand you say it was accidental. I'm not accusing you of anything. I just want your opinion. Who do you think sent her in there to meet you? And who helped her get away?"

Petie let out a hearty laugh. "You're asking my opinion? Hardly anybody ever does that."

"I'm asking because you know the woman, or used to."

"I know a lot of women." He kept laughing and shaking his head at us with everything he said. "If you ask me, you gals are too busy looking into highfalutin political connections. If I was you, I wouldn't look any further than jealous chicks."

"What jealous chicks are you talking about?" demanded Jessie.

"There must be tons who have the hots for Manny and would get off on wrecking your relationship. Who knows, it coulda been a conspiracy." He startled me with another wink in my direction.

"Interesting theory," said Jessie. "Got any evidence to back it up?"

"Nah, no evidence. Just that I been acquainted with horny, desperate Cuban women and Belton League women and lots more. But I'll bet there ain't a baseball groupie alive who don't want to jump Manny. Plus, there's his ex-wife."

"As far as we know, Guadalupe wasn't within a thousand miles of the ballpark that day," said Jessie.

"Maybe not, but there was other possibilities right there," said Petie.

"Who're you talking about?" we both demanded.

Petie made a motion of zipping his lip. His teasing smile in my direction, plus Jessie's sidelong look, pushed me too far. "That's enough. If either of you think you have anything on me, spit it out right now."

Petie sobered up. "Oh, Christ, hon. No, I didn't mean you. What I meant was there's one lady friend of mine who could make me pay big-time if I talked."

"Somebody we know?" asked Jessie.

"You can tell us," I added. "We promise it won't go any further."

That got another laugh. But the mirth disappeared from Petie's face as he struggled with the secret.

"Shit, why should I be scared of spilling the beans on her, just 'cause she's the boss's daughter? Who knows how much longer I'll be working for her daddy, anyway? If he decides I'm damaged goods, he'll try to turn me out."

"Are you telling us you've fooled around with Madeline Carter?" asked Jessie.

"Yeah, once. Totally unplanned. We ran into each other at the Belton shooting range one early Sunday morning, when the place was deserted. After we both showed off what we could do with high-powered rifles, we wandered back to the main building. Before I knew what hit me, we was groping each other. We completed the deed practically standing up, in the ladies' bathroom."

"What kind of nymphomaniac is she?" I burst out. "She and her husband are setting themselves up as candidates for higher office, spouting family values all the way."

I couldn't be sure Petie wasn't exaggerating. Still, this information bolstered my hopes that Tommy would step back from the Bushnell campaign.

"Chicks who're in love with guns are always nymphos," laughed Petie. "Mad would make love to those if she could. I was just a notch in her belt, and vice versa. And she got all prissy with me as soon as we was done. Told me she was willing to forget it and not let it affect our business relationship. Just like I was the one who jumped her."

"Are you and she still close?" asked Jessie.

"Yeah, we keep in touch. She likes to impress me with her connections. She's gotten me invites to real snazzy parties, even a few embassy shindigs. Gives this country bumpkin a chance to dress up."

"Maybe you should try screwing her again," I said, hating the woman. "It might help you keep your job."

Petie frowned as if he had expected more compassion from me. Then he said, "I'd do it in a heartbeat, hon, if that's what it took."

"Somebody should expose her before she becomes Mrs. Senator," I continued. But Jessie urged caution. It would be far more useful to investigate Madeline's pattern of conduct. She might have had numerous affairs with underlings.

"She'd make a fascinating study in the abuse of female power," said Jessie. "What else can you tell us about her, Petie?"

"I dunno what other hired help she's been screwing, but I can tell you her real ambition. It's to be the fucking first lady of the United States."

"She thinks her wimp of a husband is gonna get her there?" I asked.

"Shit no. If you believe her, the current president has the hots for her."

"What makes her think that?" asked Jessie, betraying no surprise. Anything seemed possible with this chief executive, who had divorced his second wife while running for the office.

"She told me she visits the Oval Office regularly," said Petie. "Couldn't reveal what kind of top secret official business takes her there, but I can guess."

Jessie asked, "Any idea when these visits started? Were they going on during last baseball season?"

"At least that long."

I could practically hear Jessie's mind whirling with the discovery that Madeline had been conferring with President Smith in the weeks leading up to Manny's kidnapping. Further, it seemed likely that Madeline had engineered Petie's invitation to the party where he had first made the acquaintance of the mysterious Maria. I knew Jessie was driving toward the conclusion that "the boss's daughter" was the sought-after link between the Cuban embassy and the militia—and that the plot had been cooked up with the president's knowledge and blessing.

"Thanks for answering my questions, Petie," she said. "I now believe you were an unwitting catalyst in all this. I'm not blaming you."

"Oh, please. An unwitting catalyst? I'm just a horny bastard. Really, ladies, that's my only crime."

•

Jessie talked excitedly as we left the rehab center, wondering if she had ferreted out evidence that the president had committed an impeachable crime.

"Slow down, Jess," I said. "You better be extra careful about accusing the president. Think about it. Why would Smith, or any president, sanction the kidnapping of a naturalized American citizen by his former country?"

"Why don't you think about it? Smith has all the worst qualities of his recent predecessors—chicken hawk mentality, empty religiosity, cowboy delusions, a reputation as a womanizer. I'll bet it's that last trait that's gonna end up doing him in."

"Both dumb and horny?" I suggested.

"A perfect match for President Ramirez, come to think of it." This observation gave Jessie another idea: what if the two presidents, supposed enemies, had plotted together through secret channels? "Idiots in high places always give themselves away sooner or later," she declared as we climbed into my car.

I sighed. After I had paid the parking attendant and driven out of the garage, I tried to talk her down.

"Jess, you're always so sure everybody else is dumb. If Smith were involved in Manny's kidnapping, it wasn't out of stupidity. He's dumb like a fox, even if he leads with his cock sometimes. I think he tried to hatch a plan to bring down the Communist regime in Cuba."

"Then he failed," Jessie shot back. "What happened to the invasion Castilla and Boyd talked up on TV? It was all talk. The regime is still entrenched—Alfonso Senior and Junior, Guadalupe, the whole miserable extended family and all their sycophants."

"This was a subtle revolution," I said.

"What're you talking about? There was no revolution."

"Jessie, it happened during the game in Cuba, right under your nose. Ramirez and Castilla had their heads together. You probably missed it while you were in the bathroom, dealing with the spicy tacos. I believe they made a deal for Manny's freedom, and Ramirez played his cards like a shark. He became a silent business partner with a billionaire baseball owner. How many Communist dictators can say that?"

Jessie didn't reply. As I made my way out of the city, I hoped she was considering the possibility that Manny's kidnapping had brought about some good. If nothing else, the enemy dictator might be defanged by taking up our national pastime.

I pointed this out, but Jessie shook her head. "That doesn't satisfy me. I still don't know the full story. Like, what really goes on in the Oval Office between Smith and Madeline?"

"I know you'd like to be a fly on the wall during one of those trysts," I said. "But face it. The closest you'll ever get to the Oval Office is Deirdre's reception room."

"That's not worth shit. I've got to penetrate the fortress."

"How do you propose to do that?" I inquired.

Jessie fell silent again. I was driving north on Georgia Avenue, which reminded me of the day last October when we had stopped at a gas station near the Maryland line to throw up in tandem. I was about to mention the incident when I noticed that Jessie was rubbing her stomach. I slowed down in case my acceleration was making her carsick.

"Would you mind stopping somewhere?" she asked. "I've got to go to the bathroom."

I pulled into the same place as before and got the key from the same kindly attendant. As we occupied our parallel stalls, I felt relieved that there was no crisis to deal with this time.

Then a shriek pierced the air.

"Get me to the hospital, right now!"

I was in a state of eerie calm as I helped Jessie back to the car. Sweaty and teary eyed, she was clutching both her stomach and her crotch. The Saturday traffic was light as I drove rapidly up Georgia Avenue to Silver Spring, making for Holy Cross Hospital.

I acted as the voice of reason, assuring Jessie that a few bloodstains on her panties probably meant nothing. But I couldn't help thinking, once again, we're twins. Then I slapped myself down for being so smug. I really didn't want her to repeat my experience.

"Randi, I'm sorry, but I'm not like you," said Jessie in a shaky voice. "I'd be devastated to lose this baby."

"You have no idea how I felt about it."

I wanted to say more, but this was no time to argue. Instead I added, "Stay calm. We're almost there."

"I'm scared, Randi. I feel something coming out."

I got her into the emergency room and then stepped outside to phone Mom and Dad. They were panic-stricken in a way that shook me.

"Why in the world were you carting Jessie around in her condition?" demanded Mom.

"It was her idea," I said defensively. "She had a very important errand downtown. She asked for my help."

Dad took the phone and started in on me, too. "Why didn't you get her an ambulance in the District? That would've been a lot faster."

"I thought it made more sense to bring her to Maryland, where her own doctor is," I said. "If you think I screwed up, I'm sorry."

Mom took the phone back and said, "Let her know we'll try to contact Manny in Florida, and then we'll come right to the hospital."

Fine, I thought. You take care of her. I stayed with Jessie until our parents arrived, and then I left.

* * * * *

### Chapter Eight

Mom called the next afternoon to offer a nebulous apology and to report that Jessie was resting comfortably in the hospital. The bleeding had subsided, but bed rest had been ordered as a precaution. Manny had arrived from Florida around noon and would be at Jessie's bedside during the three or four days she was scheduled to remain in the hospital. After he returned to the Keys training camp, Mom and Dad would take Jessie in and make sure she stayed in bed for as long as medically advisable.

"How long do you think that'll be?" I asked.

"If I have my way, it'll be for the rest of her pregnancy."

"You're talking almost four months," I said. "She'll hate that. She never thought she'd miss a beat."

"She'll do whatever she needs to do to have a healthy baby."

I braced myself for further criticism of my attitude. Instead, Mom reminisced about her own obstetrical history. After suffering two miscarriages in her early thirties, she had welcomed the arrival of twins at age thirty-six as a redemption of sorts. Her high-risk pregnancy had required her to drop everything else to fight for our lives. From the moment she made us her priority, her career as an advertising executive was effectively over. There were too many go-getters ready to take her place. She was no longer her husband's colleague, but merely his advisor.

"Something tells me Jessie would have a hard time adjusting to limitations like that," I said.

"She might surprise us all," said Mom.

I doubted Jessie would make the same choices as Mom had. That is unless—God save us—she also had twins. Was she sitting on that news?

•

I visited Jessie on the first Saturday afternoon she spent in our childhood bedroom, now a guest room. It was also the first full day of spring. She admitted to feeling enticed by the ripening colors and teasing fragrances outdoors, but she had resigned herself to months of inactivity, even though baseball's Opening Day was less than two weeks away. A couple of days before then, Manny and Bobby would be coming north to stay with Manny's parents while the Keys were in town for three games.

Jessie was following all of Mom's instructions to take it easy. She assured me she was neither having twins nor planning to slow down her career much once this crisis was over. She predicted she would deliver a baby girl around the Fourth of July, just in time to celebrate Manny's third appearance in the mid-season All-Star Game. She had also spoken to Deirdre Smith Gordon on the phone about a possible White House baby shower after the birth.

"Deirdre forbade me to get out of bed for anything other than my doctor's appointments and an occasional leak," laughed Jessie. "I didn't know a president's daughter had the power to issue executive orders."

"Was Deirdre dishing any high-level gossip?" I asked.

"Christ, if anything she's even cattier than she was when we were schoolgirls. She accuses Madeline Carter of a swelled head. Apparently it came as a bit of a shocker that Don Bushnell, a mere state legislator, decided to run for the open Senate seat. He would've been well positioned to try for his district's House seat, where the incumbent is considered vulnerable. Deirdre thinks Don and Mad should've aspired to represent southwest Virginia, like both of their daddies did, before going for statewide office. She's sure Madeline is the one pushing for the bigger prize. Deirdre even hinted that in her opinion, the Bushnells fall short in some areas."

"Like what?" I asked. "Family values? You think maybe Deirdre has heard rumors about Madeline's Oval Office dalliances with her father?"

"I'll bet she has. But she hastened to add that in spite of any private misgivings, she's still totally committed to campaigning for them. So, on the surface at least, the Madeline-Deirdre political alliance continues."

We went on discussing the high-powered catfight, but Jessie's mood darkened. Shortly, she changed the subject.

"Randi, I have to tell you, I'm beginning to understand what you went through when you had your miscarriage. If I ever suggested you should have shrugged the whole thing off easily, I'm really sorry."

"I appreciate that, Jess."

"I'm finding out myself that there's an ingrained prejudice in the medical profession when it comes to gynecological problems. My own doctor pisses me off sometimes. It reminds me of the pressure you felt in the office to submit to counseling. Let's face it—a working woman going through a troubled pregnancy is presumed to be at least partly at fault for not putting family before all else. And I know that on top of that, you're still under the gun at work because of that outsourcing threat. It can't be a healthy atmosphere for an ambitious woman."

I responded, "I'm trying to make myself indispensable in the office. It's a Catch-22, since it takes time away from my personal life. But I know I can't win, so I try not to worry about it."

Still, talking about it made me realize how exhausting the struggle had become. "I gotta say, though, sometimes I get so tired of working like a dog without any guarantee of security. It makes me feel like one of these days, if somebody pushes me too far, I could chuck it."

"Quit your job?" Jessie smiled. "I'll believe that when I see it. You've never been known as a risk taker, Randi."

"I might surprise you someday." I wondered if I meant it.

I changed the subject gingerly, asking Jessie how Manny was reacting to her health troubles. She frowned and said, "It hasn't helped." She started pulling on one of her locks. Then she blurted, "I'm really scared that if I lose this baby, I'll lose Manny."

"I don't believe it," I exclaimed. "He's a good guy. Not the type to cut and run."

"I'm talking about losing him emotionally. He's finally admitted to being depressed ever since we got back from Cuba, but the public sure wouldn't guess it. He dismisses the idea that it could be post-traumatic stress syndrome and won't consider seeing a therapist." She picked up a tissue from the nightstand beside her bed and dabbed her eyes, but she did not give way to tears.

When I asked her to describe Manny's symptoms, Jessie said they weren't overt. He had seemed to do fine during their weeks in Pompano Beach, getting into shape according to schedule and coming home to her and Bobby in their rented condo every night. Yet she had sensed he was going through the motions. He was gentle and kind as always, but distant. Ever since he'd first proposed that Jessie write about his experience, he had ceased to talk about it.

"I'd keep pushing the counseling, if I were you," I said. "It didn't do much for me, but he sounds seriously traumatized."

"He has a typically macho attitude about getting help: don't be a whiner, just suck it up. Besides, if his teammates found out he was seeing a shrink, they'd razz him about it. Ex-teammates would be worse. What if Wilson Boyd got hold of it and started teasing Manny again on that idiot TV show of his? I swear I'd like to punch out that asshole myself."

I defended Wilson as usual, although I knew it would irritate Jessie and make her question my motives. I went on to insist that Manny would begin to snap out of his funk once the season started. And then once the baby was born a few months later, everything would be perfect.

Jessie shook her head. "He'll never be himself again until we find out for sure what happened. And neither will I, for that matter. We both need to know."

"Can't you just leave it to the FBI?" I don't know why I bothered to ask.

"Get real," she said, hoisting herself up in bed. "I'm supposed to trust the administration to pursue an investigation that might hit close to home? It'll never get any further unless I keep pushing it."

The impossibility of this struck her as she finished speaking. She sank back down on her multiple pillows and reflected for a few moments. Finally, she said, "Randi, I need your help."

"I'll do anything I can," I said. "Would you like me to call Manny?"

"That's not what I had in mind." She frowned. "Why would you want to do that?"

I flushed; it really wasn't because I had a crush on Manny. "I'd just ask him how he feels. Who knows, maybe he'd tell me a few things he's reluctant to tell you."

"Fine," said Jessie, "but that's not the kind of help I really need. I'm about to propose something really daring. You'd be smart to think it over before you agree."

Oh Lord, I thought. Whatever it is, do I need it? Must I get all my kicks by immersing myself in Jessie's endlessly harrowing, though fascinating, soap opera?

My resentment fled in a surge of energy as I listened to the assignment Jessie had in mind for me. It didn't take me long to accept.

•

Jessie's plan had the potential to rock Don Bushnell's Senate campaign—and possibly my marriage, as well. Tommy had told us his efforts on Bushnell's behalf had become intermittent. If he were in fact still involved, this might get him fired.

Snooping around my husband's e-mail as I often did, I found Bushnell's upcoming schedule. The candidate was on a tour of Virginia to assess his early strength in various jurisdictions, leading up to the Republican primary in September. He would be holding a media event in the Fairfax Hotel at noon on Saturday, the first of April. Since that was only two days before Opening Day, and next door to DC, Jessie and I figured there was a chance Madeline would appear with him.

Jessie arranged for a colleague of hers to obtain press credentials for me and to escort me to the event. This acquaintance got me a seat near the front of the media section in the large conference room and coached me on how to conduct myself. Once the question-and-answer period started, I had to do everything possible to be called on. That would mean jumping up, waving, and shouting and screaming louder than the real reporters. Jessie's colleague assured me that an unfamiliar face (and a particularly attractive one, he gallantly asserted) would stand out in the crowd.

I trembled as Bushnell strode up to the podium to deliver his opening remarks in his typical southern Virginia drawl. "How y'all doing today? My name is Don Bushnell, and I'm currently a state legislator representing the Blacksburg area and a part-time law professor at Virginia Tech. I've come here today to try to get a sense of how folks in these parts would take to my possibly making a run for the U.S. Senate."

While he breezed through the rest of a conventional statement, I took a quick glance around the room and saw no sign of Madeline. I reflected that this was not an event that was expected to produce bombshells, so if I succeeded in delivering mine, it would resound loudly. I tried to calm myself by studying the man, whom I found attractive—tall and rather burly, with longish, light brown hair and a not-quite-clean-shaven face. His suit and tie looked slightly ill fitting, as if to suggest he was as much of an outdoorsman as he was a lawyer. He took in the room with acute glances that seemed to linger on the younger women.

Then it struck me: my God, he's an older version of Tommy.

That thought did nothing to calm me as the candidate opened the floor to questions. After he had recognized and called on two or three familiar faces, his eyes alighted on me as I attempted to gain the floor. He made enough of a gesture in my direction for me to seize on. I jumped to my feet and forced myself to ask the question I had rehearsed. Somehow I got it out, steadying my voice and slowing down as I went along.

"Mr. Bushnell, I understand your wife began paying frequent visits to the Oval Office last summer, and that those visits have continued. My question is, did she and the president ever discuss Manny Chavez, who was an employee of her father's ball club, either before or after his kidnapping?"

Bushnell's jaw dropped. His eyes flashed around the room as if he were looking for his wife. I heard muted exclamations from the media types behind me.

The candidate composed himself and managed a bland, though puzzled, response. "I don't know why my wife's visits to the Oval Office would be newsworthy. My wife and I are close friends of President Smith and his family, and there is nothing unusual or remarkable about friends visiting him. The president receives many guests and has many off-the-record discussions. So to answer your question, I have no idea whether he and my wife ever discussed Manny Chavez."

Bushnell took several more questions on other topics, but he kept glancing at me. Then he ended the event rather abruptly. I noticed that I drew inquisitive stares from the reporters as I made my way out of the room. Jessie's colleague caught up to me and offered congratulations on accomplishing my mission. The plan had not been to pound the candidate for answers, but merely to plant an idea in a ripe environment.

•

Tommy wasn't at home when I got there, which didn't surprise me. Lately, to my relief, he had cut down on the weekend target practice with Madeline. He tended to make up for it by spending extra time at the office, but I could handle that. When he came in at five o'clock, he looked at me strangely.

"I don't have to tell you what I did today, do I?" I asked.

He said he had watched an Internet simulcast of the event. Afterward he had visited a chat room devoted to local politics. It seemed my bombshell indeed had exploded in many ears. The style of question had reminded some observers of Jessie Austen Chavez. As we were not identical twins, no one had identified me on the spot.

"Tommy, I'm sorry if I screwed up any of your political prospects. But Jessie asked for my help. It was something she needed done."

"You asked a legitimate question. Don't worry about it."

But Tommy looked uneasy. He went into his office to watch a repeat Web cast of the event, while I fixed dinner. Afterward, we ate, mostly in silence.

When I got up to start clearing the table, Tommy interrupted me. He pulled me onto his lap and kissed me. Before I knew it, we were cavorting on the living room couch with a rare spontaneity and joy.

•

"He blows so hot and cold," I complained to Jessie during my visit the next afternoon. We had rehashed my performance at the press conference, which she praised. Then we discussed its possible effects on both our marriages. I described the fantastic love Tommy and I had made, as if he felt liberated by my willingness to take on the Bushnells. But by this morning he had withdrawn again, evidently having second thoughts. He had gone to the shooting range early.

Jessie sighed. "You have a remote husband? Tell me about it."

She was afraid my stunt had done nothing to help Manny's mood. The Keys had broken camp, and he and Bobby had arrived in town last night for their planned several-day sojourn at his parents' house. When he had visited her this morning before going to a team workout, she had explained what had happened at the press conference. He'd just shaken his head.

"I know what he's thinking. Even now, he still wants to believe the kidnapping was some kind of prank gone amok—a plot cooked up by jealous teammates who somehow hooked up with jealous Cubans. He can't fathom the idea that prominent American politicians or baseball executives could have been behind it. He told me that when the abduction began, despite his terror and disbelief, it felt like a huge practical joke. In fact, the first thought he had when he came to in a jail cell in Havana was, how far will these clowns go?"

"How about if I call Manny?" I proposed again. "I could try to explain the press conference from my end."

"Good luck with that." Jessie lurched up in bed. "You know, I wish Madeline Carter had been there yesterday. Why do so many political investigations focus on the president's men and overlook the president's women? I've always suspected Fascists in skirts are the worst kind."

"You always have?" I asked. "Wasn't it Petie Jansen who put that idea in your head? Remember, he told us to ignore the politics and just beware of jealous chicks."

"Did he? I guess I didn't really listen to his babbling."

Jessie continued to expound on her feminine theory. This made me nervous, because she was scheduled to give a live interview from her bedroom during tomorrow's Opening Day television broadcast. Would she seize the opportunity of a national audience to vent her suspicions?

"You could get yourself into hot water if you make unfounded accusations," I said.

"I don't intend to accuse anybody of anything. I'm beginning to think all the guilty parties will give themselves away in time, with only a little prodding. Just like Bushnell's initial startled reaction to your question yesterday might have implicated his wife."

"Is that what you're planning to say on the broadcast?" I demanded.

Jessie wouldn't reveal her plan but instead continued to ruminate aloud about catfights between powerful women. "Just imagine what could erupt if Madeline, Deirdre, Guadalupe, and I ever found ourselves together in the same room."

"You're not gonna mention Guadalupe on the air, are you?"

That would be a dangerous strategy, I warned her, with Guadalupe and her new husband, Alfonso Ramirez Junior, close at hand. They were scheduled to attend the game as special guests of Javy Castilla and the Florida Keys, a team newly enhanced by Cuban players. Additionally, Guadalupe's hard-won visitation agreement entitled her to spend several hours with Bobby during and after the game.

Jessie agreed it would be inadvisable to draw attention to her husband's ex-wife, whose mere presence in the ballpark would cause Manny more than enough aggravation. Other than that, she made no promises. I left her bedside not knowing what to expect.

•

Somewhat nervous, I telephoned Manny that evening to say hello and to wish him luck on Opening Day. I relaxed when he seemed pleased to hear from me. He thanked me for my reassurances that I thought Jessie was doing well. We talked about her, Bobby, and the rest of the family.

Then I asked, rather pointedly, how he was doing.

"I'm all right. Why? Do I come off like a basket case?"

"Jessie seems to think your nerves are strained," I said. "But maybe that's just her."

"She keeps wanting to hash things out. I just wish she'd calm down. Her health is the only thing that matters right now. If she's okay, I am, too."

"Manny, I do have to say, I'm not so sure I should have done what I did at the press conference yesterday. I mean, I'm not sure it was worth it."

"Oh, no need to apologize." Manny's voice was somewhat subdued. "I'd like to find out someday all the details behindwhat happened to me. But now's not the time. All I want to do is play some decent ball and become a father again."

"That makes sense, I guess." I allowed some doubt to creep into my voice. With Jessie out of action, I was beginning to acquire a taste for asking questions myself.

"It'd be a relief to put the whole mess behind me," Manny added. "But sometimes I ask myself, is this all really over?"

"What makes you think it isn't?" I asked.

He hesitated. Behind his conversational tone, I sensed something ready to boil over.

"Are you concerned that the woman who abducted you is still out there?" I continued.

He seemed startled that I had thrown the kidnapper in his face. "Or maybe she was nearby when you were being held in Havana," I persevered.

"How would I know that?" he snapped. "I've never seen her face. She was wearing a mask when she walked into the elevator and cornered me. I'll never be able to identify her—except maybe by voice."

"But we know—that is, we have reason to believe—she was a woman named Maria, was connected to the embassy, and had cozied up to Petie Jansen," I said.

"She probably told Jansen her name was Maria because that was easy for the idiot to remember. Her real name doesn't matter. All I know is that she was one of Guadalupe's foot soldiers."

"Foot soldiers?" I repeated. "You think your ex-wife's that powerful?"

"Randi, I'll never draw an easy breath as long as the witch is alive."

Manny broke off. Then, recovering his offhand manner, he told me to say hello to Tommy and my parents and that he'd see me soon.

•

Tommy had injured his right hand at the shooting range trying to squeeze the balky trigger on a pistol. He had come home with the hand wrapped, but he took off the bandage the next morning as he prepared to leave for the office.

Neither Tommy nor I planned to attend the game that day, since it was a busy time at work for both of us. But at seven thirty, the phone rang, and Tommy answered it. Grimacing a little, perhaps from his injury, he handed the phone to me. "It's your old pal, Petie Jansen."

To my knowledge, this was the first time Tommy had spoken to Petie since learning of our affair. In a show of either trust or indifference, he left the room.

"Hey, babe," drawled Petie. "I'm recuperating nicely. So nicely I think Mr. Carter is encouraged. He's invited me to hobble up to his very own private suite today and be treated like an honored spectator. Plus, I get to bring guests. So how'd you like to sit up there with me?"

My heart started beating fast, but I kept my response bland. "I'd like to, but I have to go to work today."

Then I found myself thinking, what's the harm? With the effort I had been putting in lately at the office, no one there could reasonably argue that I didn't deserve a little time off. And as far as seeing Petie was concerned, Tommy knew we were no longer sexually involved. He still saw Madeline occasionally, and presumably that was platonic, too. My God, I thought, what if I run into Madeline or Bushnell up there? Will there be fireworks?

Today's ballgame had suddenly turned into an event that I could not miss. I told Petie I would put in a half day at the office and meet him later.

"Whatever you say, toots," he replied. "I'm sure you know the drill. Get to the will-call window by game time, flash some kinda ID, and you'll be escorted into my presence."

After I hung up, Tommy came into the room, looking perturbed. I thought he was reacting to the phone call and hastened to reassure him that Petie had asked me to the game as an old friend.

Tommy brushed that off and told me about a news story he had just heard on the radio. A bomb plot had been uncovered at an abortion clinic in Silver Spring. The device had been discovered and disarmed shortly before it would have gone off. It being a busy Monday morning, the blast no doubt would have inflicted numerous casualties.

"That's the place where you would have had it done, right?" Tommy questioned.

"Probably," I confirmed.

Tommy left for work without further comment.

•

My heart sank as I approached my cluttered cubicle. It was a damned shame I was so uncomfortable in the office, because the work itself still pumped me up when it engaged my writing skills and allowed me a small measure of involvement in the nation's affairs. My only hope of neutralizing the outsized, potentially lethal personalities who'd been playing office politics at my expense was to demolish the piles of projects in front of me.

Before I had a chance to dig in this morning, an e-mail alert on my computer demanded my attention. I opened it and sighed. It was a message from the National Abortion Rights Council. As a decade-long member, I agreed wholeheartedly with the group's goals, but its intensity could be tiring. NARC was organizing an immediate response to the bombing plot, mobilizing its members to begin marching at noon from the White House to Capitol Hill. The demonstrators would demand a thorough investigation and try to shame the president into condemning the would-be terrorists.

Fat chance, I thought. Smith had delivered meaningless platitudes several months prior, when an abortion provider in Richmond had been murdered. He would probably say nothing about the near miss in Silver Spring. NARC would interpret his silence as tacit approval of the bombing.

"I'll bet you're all hopped up to march today instead of work."

I whirled around to face Jean, the senior secretary and chief busybody of the office. Damn, I thought. How could I have forgotten, for even one second, to watch my back?

The two secretaries in our division often baffled me. Both middle-aged, stocky, and ordinary, they did the most thankless work in the office. They also knew everything that was happening, and to whom, seemingly before it had a chance to happen. While Caroline embraced her tasks and her colleagues with a smile, Jean never undertook anything without a grimace, and she cozied up to no one except the higher-ups.

I found it interesting that Caroline, a single, childless woman with no marital prospects, seemed happier than Jean, who was twenty years married with two teenagers. Caroline even made excuses for Jean. "Don't mind her," she had told me recently. "She's having a rough time at home. Trouble with her boys and fighting with her husband."

"Is she getting divorced?" I asked, but Caroline wouldn't say.

Whatever the problem was, Jean took it out on me. So far I had managed to produce budgets and reports at a pace that kept me one step ahead of her. But now the evil bitch had something on me. She had seen me use my e-mail for a non-business purpose. It was the kind of thing everyone did once in a while and that got noticed only if you were already in trouble.

"I'm leaving at noon," I remonstrated to Jean's departing back, "but not to march. I'm going to the baseball game as a special guest." She didn't respond.

Defiantly, I filled out a leave slip and left it in the director's inbox. I worked undisturbed for a couple of hours, until Caroline came into my cubicle and tapped me on the shoulder. She whispered, "Randi, if I were you, I wouldn't take any leave today. Or for the next week, at least."

"You know I hardly ever take leave," I protested, "but today's a special occasion. I'm going to the Filibusters game. I was invited by—as a guest of the owner."

Caroline started to reveal the scuttlebutt she had heard, but the sound of footsteps outside my cubicle caused her to scamper away.

She's just being hysterical, I told myself. Nice as she was, Caroline was inclined to blow any tidbit of gossip out of proportion. Besides, I deserved to go to the game, and nothing was going to get in the way. I kept on working, suppressing my slight qualms. After a while, my intercom rang, and I was summoned into the director's office—something that rarely happened.

I couldn't remember the last time Mr. Perkins had initiated a conversation with me. Like many short, intellectual-looking men, he had a Napoleonic complex, but his reticence often kept it in check. In fact, the very sight of me seemed to disconcert him. It was mystifying, since I had never argued with him. I generally tried to avoid attracting attention in the office. Luckily, my job didn't require much supervision. On the rare occasions when he delivered special instructions, it was through a terse e-mail or an intermediary. The secretaries might know the details before I did, and receiving them intact was a fifty-fifty proposition. Caroline, at least, meant well, but she was too ditzy to rely on for anything complex. Usually I ended up exercising my own judgment, and I'd heard no complaints.

Just this morning I had passed Mr. Perkins in the hall and received the usual grudging acknowledgment of my existence. Something had changed since then. He greeted me with, "Please close the door ... Miranda, and have a seat." His hesitation to say my name was typical of him, but ominous.

"I'll come right to the point," he said, but then he paused. He pulled off his glasses, set them down on the desk, and rubbed his eyes, giving me too much time to reflect. The orderliness of his office, which was unusual in this agency, somehow intimidated me. The government-issue clock on the wall ticked eerily in the unnatural silence. The office director replaced his glasses with all possible deliberation before he deigned to look at me.

"It's come to my attention that you might have committed a violation of agency rules."

Despite my alarm, I kept my voice steady and my tone reasonable. "Are you referring to an e-mail I received this morning? All I did was open it. It's not like I sent it myself or passed it on."

Instead of responding, Perkins went through the eye-rubbing ritual again. Exasperated, I spoke up at the risk of offending him. "I think I'm entitled to my own private political views. I know you have your own views, and that you're a family man. I didn't mean to bring the issue into the office. If that's what I did, I apologize. But that's not the reason I asked for leave today. I've been invited—"

He held up a hand. "I'm not concerned about e-mail. What I'm talking about ... Miranda, is your appearance at the Donald Bushnell press conference on Saturday. As I'm sure you're aware, it's all over the Internet now. I believe it's a clear violation of the Hatch Act."

I knew that government employees were not allowed to engage in partisan political activities, but this had never occurred to me. "Honestly, Mr. Perkins, I had no intention of getting involved in the Bushnell campaign. I was only there to help my sister."

I tried to explain further but felt myself sinking into a quagmire. "You see, I considered it a family matter. I guess it was also a political matter, but I didn't think of it that way. It was my brother-in-law who was kidnapped. My sister is now on bed rest with her pregnancy. There was nobody to handle the matter but me."

I grew more and more flustered as the director maintained his stonewall demeanor. He began to frown and look at his watch as I struggled on.

Then he got up abruptly and came around the desk. "I'm late for a meeting. I'm sorry, Miranda, but I have no choice but to suspend you for a week, effective immediately. You're dismissed, so please leave the building now."

"But that's totally unfair. I didn't mean to do anything wrong." My face flushed so hotly that I thought I would pass out. I got up and staggered toward the short man, which must have looked alarming to him.

I exclaimed, "You can't just wreck my career and then walk out. I don't have to take it! I have rights."

But even as I spoke, I remembered that I didn't. Homeland Security was at the forefront of government-wide reform—which meant your boss could now fire you without recourse if he didn't like you or if he felt moved to fill your position with one of his friends.

"You don't have much choice in the matter," the director pointed out, "unless you intend to get a lawyer and sue. Would that be worth it? One week isn't such a big deal."

"It is a big deal," I insisted. "I'd have a demerit on my record. It would hurt my chances of being hired anywhere else. And it would give you an excuse to fire me the next time I so much as express an opinion you don't like. Don't take me for a fool. I know when I'm being set up."

"If you'll excuse me, please," he said, loosening his tie.

I felt myself snapping. Until this moment, I hadn't realized how long these feelings had been building. "You think I don't know what utter bullshit this is? If I had acted like a Bushnell supporter at that press conference, you would've been fine with it. Instead, you pull the Hatch Act out of your hat. I'll bet your enforcement of that is pretty selective."

My argument flagged as I tried and failed to think of an example to make my point.

"The bottom line," resumed Perkins, "is that you can either accept this suspension or resign. It's up to you."

The idea of resigning actually made me laugh. Did he really not know what that would do to the workflow? I had handled an avalanche of special budget projects since New Year's, and I was still knee-deep in them.

"Who're you gonna get to put together that supplemental budget if I resign? Jean?"

I thought maybe I had uncovered his plan. Perkins might promote Jean into my slot to satisfy her ego, although she would blanch when confronted with the actual work. When he realized she couldn't do the job, he would proceed with his original plan to outsource the position to some corporation with appropriate political ties. Only what would he do with the disgruntled ex-secretary on his hands?

I thought that it might be fun to observe this scenario as an outsider. If Perkins were goading me to quit, why not oblige him? I'd have an easier time finding another job than trying to get along in these circumstances, with a director capable of inventing accusations against me. Be brave, I told myself. For once in your life, stand up for yourself.

I raised my voice as he tried to walk out of earshot. "I'm going with your second option. Sorry I won't be around to train my replacement."

I returned to my desk to make sure I left it in splendid disorder. I stacked the budget documents, briefing notes, and reports in misshapen piles. I left my computer on with the pro-choice alert glaring. As I walked out, saying good-bye to no one, I could only hope that saving my pride would be worth the experience of unemployment. I supposed my hotshot lawyer husband could support me for a while.

Or better yet, maybe Jessie would see fit to give me a job at her magazine, since she was the one who'd gotten me into this mess.

* * * * *

### Chapter Nine

After departing the office in the most dramatic way possible, I boarded a Metro train full of revelers bound for Opening Day at the ballpark. I called Jessie on my cell phone and reached her in her bedroom just as the camera crew was making preliminary preparations for the interview to be conducted during the game. Despite noise and confusion on all sides, I managed to tell her everything.

"You really surprise me, Randi," she responded. "I can't remember you ever defying authority before, even back in school. But who knows? This might turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to you."

"Yeah, I'll bet unemployment is gonna be a blast," I said.

"It'll be better than staying in that soul-sucking job another day. How satisfying could it be, writing budgets that support Smith's wannabe police state? I don't know how you stuck with it as long as you did."

"It was a job," I protested, "and a pretty well paying one. And there's nothing wrong with the department's overall mission."

"It sounds noble. But I'm sure the budget-writing process has been corrupted beyond repair. Our leaders love to make up euphemisms to conceal what's really happening."

Getting worked up on my behalf, Jessie reeled off numerous examples of how the Smith administration had misused the English language. "Homeland security" was turning into a smokescreen for detention or harassment of all kinds of political dissenters. "Outsourcing of commercially based government jobs" was not the money-saving activity it pretended to be, but a system for rewarding political allies.

Jessie then revived one of her pet theories: that some of the Homeland Security funding that was supposedly directed to local police departments and National Guard units was being diverted to militia-style organizations like the Tex Belton League. Many of those groups had political agendas far out of the mainstream. For all we knew, the U.S. government had financed abortion clinic bombings—and kidnappings.

"Are you planning to let loose like that on the broadcast?" I asked. "Somehow I don't think the nation is prepared to hear that my employer—my former employer—is a terrorist organization. It's a beautiful spring day, time to play ball. So if I were you, I'd keep my remarks upbeat."

Jessie promised to play it safe and tell the public what it wanted to hear—that she and Manny had emerged from their trauma stronger and happier than ever and were looking forward to the baby and a great season with their new team. She would even pretend to be glad that Guadalupe was representing the Ramirez family at today's game and that she was spending time with Bobby, as specified in her visitation agreement. No need to mention anything off-message, such as the threats from the DC branch of the Free Cuba movement, which were reportedly keeping Guadalupe's husband, Alfonso Ramirez Junior, away from the ballpark.

After planning her sweetness-and-light remarks, Jessie returned to my dilemma. What were my immediate plans?

"I don't have any, except to go to the game. Petie Jansen, of all people, invited me to join him in the owner's suite. Tommy's totally cool with it, or seems to be."

"Did you really walk off the job without a Plan B?" she asked.

"I was thinking maybe you'd give me a job with _Play Ball_. Or maybe Tommy can help me launch a new career as a legal secretary. Or maybe I'll just chuck everything and work on my screenplay for the next few months."

"That might be the best plan," said Jessie. "Face it, your writing skills have been corrupted by years of creating deceptive budgets. The screenplay might be just the thing to recharge your creative batteries."

Shifting to the present, she pondered the implications of my viewing the game from such a prime spot. "I must say, it's an achievement just to get in there. I couldn't crack it when I tried."

"I remember," I said. Jessie's failure to gain access to Mr. Carter's private space on that momentous October day had turned out to be the least of our worries. But I suspected it still rankled. When was the last time I accomplished a feat that Jessie had attempted and failed?

Betraying no jealousy, Jessie breezed on. "Have you thought about what you're gonna say if you run into Madeline or Don Bushnell up there?"

"Christ no. What's there to say? I'll just pray the suite's big enough so I can ignore them. Or vice versa."

"No way. You're not gonna wimp out on a chance to confront the most evil couple we know."

"You want me to get in their faces?" I asked.

"It's time you confronted Madeline, at least. Don't you think so?"

I tried to picture that scene. I'd introduce myself and say, "Well, we have quite a history between us for two people who've never met face to face. You screwed my husband at least a few times in the past year, and now I find myself out of work because of your husband. And my sister has gotten it into her head that you know more than you should about her husband's kidnapping. So, do you?"

When I rehearsed that speech for Jessie, she laughed. "You're obviously not an interviewer. There's a right way and a wrong way to be aggressive with subjects. I'd advise you to just play it cool if you happen to see the Bushnells. Better yet, just relax and enjoy the day—only don't let Petie get you too drunk."

"That's excellent advice," I said.

"And remember what I said last fall about bugs in the suites. Even if Madeline doesn't show up in the flesh, she could be listening in."

The cameramen were ready to light her, so Jessie said a quick good-bye.

•

Against all reason, my spirits lifted as I exited the train with the joyous crowd. We swarmed toward the gates, tearing off outer layers as the early April sun beat down and breathing in the exotic, spring fragrances. It was a day made to order for new beginnings. I had committed the first truly rash act of my life, and it felt inspired. I had salvaged my self-respect, which could never be the wrong thing to do. I pitied my former colleagues, stuck in the office on this gorgeous day and trying to cope with the work I had left behind.

I joined a long but fast-moving line at the will-call window, where fans were picking up tickets that they had ordered by phone or that well-connected friends had left for them. I was nearly at the head of the line when a snag developed. The two young men ahead of me seemed unable to prove that they were the intended recipients of expensive club seats. They grew hostile, and the clerk at the window called in a superior. The men were directed through a side door.

The incident rattled me. Would they be arrested for trying to steal tickets? As I stepped to the window, I feared my story sounded even less plausible than theirs. Nevertheless, I told the clerk that Petie Jansen had arranged for me to get a pass to the owner's suite. The man behind the glass looked at me blankly, while someone behind me hissed, "Yeah, right."

I showed the clerk two forms of identification and sweated it out as he looked through a pile of envelopes with names on them. Had Petie left all of those passes? I didn't care—as long as one of them was for me. The clerk kept eyeing me as he neared the bottom of the pile. Hearing more rude remarks behind me, I began to grow agitated

But soon the clerk did find my pass. He beckoned me through the side door and pointed me toward an inner office. I had to wait outside while the two men ahead of me were being interrogated. They had apparently given up their quest for tickets and were pleading a misunderstanding in order to avoid being detained by ballpark security. After a couple of minutes, they were allowed to leave empty-handed.

By the time I stepped into the office, I could hear the national anthem being sung on the field by a huge choir. How much longer would this take? The official meticulously checked my pass and my ID, searched my purse, waved a wand over me, and then picked up the phone and summoned someone else.

Moments later I was handed off to an even more humorless official, a man in a three-piece suit with a holster visible inside his jacket. We got on an escalator I had never noticed before, evidently off-limits to "normal" fans, and traveled to an unpopulated floor. There we walked down a corridor and got on an elevator. As it ascended, I felt a chill run up and down my spine. I put myself in Manny's shoes as never before. Trapped in a space like this, he had found himself descending toward an unknown destination, trying pitifully to convince himself that what was happening to him was a prank.

I snapped out of my reverie when we arrived at the suite level, and I felt reassured when we passed the luxury box where my family and I had been entertained the past fall. We proceeded to the owner's main suite, where we confronted Hoss, the same huge guard who had denied Jessie entry that day.

"You again," he said, raising his brows.

"Nice to see you," I replied. To my relief, Hoss smiled as he took the envelope from my escort, who then departed without a word. Hoss extracted a badge and handed it to me to pin to a visible spot on my person. Then he said, "Behave yourself," before opening the door and motioning me through.

There sat Petie in full party mode, looking closer to recovery than he had when Jessie and I had visited him in his rehab place in March. He still had the crutch but now sported a soft cast, and he had continued to regain weight and muscle. At first glance, he looked fit enough to be out on the field with his teammates. Instead, here he was at a table overlooking the action, drink in hand, a hot blonde on his left and a demure brunette on his right.

I wondered why I had been invited to join this mini-harem. But considering what I had already been through today, I decided not to take offense but to embrace the party atmosphere. Thankfully, the Bushnells were nowhere in sight.

"Miranda!" Petie exclaimed. "Glad you finally made it, babe. You're just the brainy type we need to balance out this party."

He rose from his seat, beckoning with his gin and tonic. Then he stumbled toward me, grimacing a little, and kissed my cheek. I realized then that he was still lame, and I suspected his condition was fueling his drinking.

I sat down opposite Petie and exchanged glances with my two "rivals." I recognized the blonde as a cheerleader with the local pro basketball team and a minor television celebrity. Besides appearing in commercials, she served as an occasional substitute hostess on a morning talk show. She looked ruffled by my presence. The other woman, a mature, Hispanic beauty, gave me a friendly nod.

"Ladies, this is Miranda," said Petie, "twin sister of a hotshot reporter and a budding screenwriter. Gotta be careful what you say around her—it might come back to bite you. In fact, she's using my life story in her future movie. What're you calling it now, babe?"

"It's untitled," I said. "Who knows if I'll ever finish it?" But then a possible title flashed through my mind, the best yet: _I Was a Militia Madam_.

"Meet my lady friends," Petie continued, "Kristen and Maria. Pretty ornamental company for a country hick, wouldn't you say?"

"Kristen Borg," said the blonde, shaking my hand. She spoke with a Kentucky drawl like Petie's. What was she, a Scandinavian hillbilly?

"He's not too swift at remembering last names," added Kristen.

"First names, either," said the brunette, laughing. "For your information, silly, my name's not Maria. It's Marta. How long will it take you to get that through your thick skull?"

"Don't get your fur up, okay?" said Petie. "I dunno why I keep getting set up with you Cuban babes. Y'all must be part of some evil plot, but that ain't my affair. I gotta say, though, you're the prettiest one yet. Maybe I'm supposed to succumb to your charms and move to your country."

"I'll see if that can be arranged," smiled Marta. She seemed nice—too nice, in fact. Manny's remark about Guadalupe's "foot soldiers" flashed through my mind. This woman spoke with an American-influenced Hispanic accent, much like Guadalupe.

Noticing that Kristen looked peeved, Petie turned to her and stroked her shoulder. "Only that plot ain't gonna work on me no more, cause like any real redneck, I prefer blondes. Especially the show-off type, like Kristen here. The first time I saw her kick up her legs and expose her pantaloons in front of an arena crowd, she stole my heart for keeps."

He leaned over and kissed the cheerleader on the lips, which had a soothing effect on her. She snuggled up to him as if to lay her claim, at least for today. That provoked another smile from Marta, and one from me. I didn't care if they screwed each other under the table. I was here to have a nice lunch, watch the game, recover from this morning's trauma—and to keep my eyes and ears open.

As I settled down, I noticed a rectangular piece of paper lying on the table. I picked it up and gasped. It was a check for one hundred thousand dollars, made out to the "Peter Jansen Foundation for Appalachian Education" and signed by Madeline Carter on behalf of Carter Industries.

Petie laughed at my surprise. "Betcha didn't know I was a major humanitarian, did ya? You probably thought I was shitting ya when I said I was gonna help poor mountain kids someday. But there's the proof I'm already doing it, and the ball club is helping out."

"I'm impressed. You're really giving something back," I said.

"Yeah, well, it ain't like I got much else going on right now." He rubbed his injured leg and winced. "Unless the team decides to give me a coaching gig while I'm recuperating. So far, no dice on that."

I learned that Madeline Carter had come in about forty-five minutes earlier to present the check to Petie in person. The exchange had been videotaped and would be shown on the center-field JumboTron sometime during the game. "Hope that reminds the fans I'm still alive," said Petie.

"At least the boss lady seems aware of that," I remarked.

Both Kristen and Marta recoiled. Had I said the wrong thing? I gathered from their clucking that Madeline had treated them with disdain, ordering them to stay out of camera range while she presented the check to Petie.

"I can tell she's a jealous bitch," blurted Kristen. "She don't even like being in the same room as younger women. Can't stand the competition, I guess."

Remarks like that could lead to trouble, I reflected, if this suite really were bugged.

"Not that we could ever really compete with such a powerful lady," added Marta in her lilting accent.

"Ah, bullshit." Petie scowled. "She don't own me, no matter what she thinks."

A waiter appeared to take my lunch order and make sure the others had what they needed. I requested the same pasta and salad that the other three were having. I ordered a glass of red wine, telling myself that would be it for the day. Petie ordered a second round of gin and tonics for himself and his other companions, a second helping of pasta for himself, and a replenished bread basket.

The first two innings passed uneventfully before I really turned my attention to the game. The Keys, batting in the top of the third, were mounting the first offensive threat of the day. The Filibusters' ace pitcher, Zack Jones, had given up a single and a walk with nobody out. He now faced the opposing pitcher, one of the recent Cuban immigrants playing in his first Major League game. The pitcher squared around to bunt, hoping to advance the two base runners. The first pitch, high and tight, sent him sprawling.

"Atta boy, Jonesy. Bean the spic bastard," laughed Petie. "Send him back where he came from in a coma."

"Jesus, Petie," I exclaimed. "Watch your language." I glanced at Marta, who seemed unruffled.

"It ain't that I'm prejudiced against Cubans in particular," expanded Petie. "I'm just for sending all the immigrant ballplayers back to whatever hellholes they crawled outta. Can't help it, y'know. I'm just out to protect my country and my ballpark."

"The Filibusters are an all-American outfit this season," I pointed out. "Mr. Carter dealt away or demoted most of his Hispanics. Doesn't that make you happy?"

"If I could play, it would," muttered Petie, rubbing his injured leg again. Reaching into the rear pocket of his jeans, he took out a bottle of pills. He swallowed one with a gin and tonic chaser.

"Sorry if I stepped on your toes, sweetheart," he said to Marta, putting the bottle back in his pocket. "Must be the painkiller talking. Makes me a wee bit paranoid."

"You shouldn't be mixing that with alcohol, should you?" I asked.

"I got the metabolism for it."

Petie downed the rest of his drink and resumed, "Anyway, the Busters are gonna miss me more than all those Hispanics put together. But I'm gonna shock them by coming back by mid-season."

Cheered by this prospect, Petie assessed the talents of the youngster from Mississippi who was taking his place in center field. Clay Milton was a good kid with decent range in the outfield, a fine glove, and speed on the bases. But being skinny, he was unlikely to hit with enough power to replace the multi-faceted Jansen. "Forget it, dude," he said.

The Keys pitcher was still attempting to bunt. "Jonesy" kept his pitches high to make the sacrifice difficult. After two misses, the batter finally made contact, sending the bunt toward Wilson Boyd at first base. Boyd, choosing not to take the easy out at first, whipped the ball across the diamond to third base in time to get the lead runner.

We all cheered the pinpoint execution and quick thinking of Wilson Boyd. "Didn't I tell y'all rednecks really know how to play this game?" exclaimed Petie.

Buoyed by his friend's prowess, he reached out and stroked Marta's shoulder. The cheerleader tossed her blonde head and looked away.

"I been accused of hating spics—excuse me, Hispanics—but that ain't fair. I may have a slight problem with Hispanic ballplayers, but I love senoritas."

"Obviously," responded Marta, smiling at his caresses. Her imperviousness to his ethnic insults struck me as otherworldly.

"Shit, I bet I could even get to love Hispanic ballplayers if the Keys hired me as a hitting coach. They should do it if my own team won't. Why don't you ask your pal Javy Castilla if there's any chance of that?"

"I don't know Mr. Castilla," said Marta. "I work for President Ramirez."

"Don't shit me," said Petie. "Everybody knows that dictator of yours is in Castilla's pocket."

I would have liked to pursue this, but at that moment the waiter brought in my lunch and reinforcements for the rest of the party. After he left, the cheerleader gulped her fresh gin and tonic, slammed down her glass, and said, "How come you're singing this different tune all of a sudden? You told me all the Hispanics you knew were slimy users—men and women alike."

She let that sink in and then shifted her gaze to me. "You also told me girl reporters were phony sluts. That the more aggressive they are, the hornier they are."

"You know me," laughed Petie. "I'll say anything to set off a good catfight. I get turned on when girls claw each other's eyes out over me."

I said, "I'm not a reporter. Not really." However, in my mind I was wishing I had the skills to interrogate these people.

"How conceited can you get, jerk?" demanded Kristen. "You think the three of us are gonna fight over you?" She seemed to have her own dukes up, at least.

"It wouldn't be that unusual. I've had more powerful chicks than you fighting over me."

"Oh really? Who?" I asked.

Petie made a motion as if to zip his lip and returned his attention to the game. He cheered when his teammate Jonesy struck out the next batter for the second out of the inning. Then, on the brink of escaping the inning without damage, the pitcher reverted to his wild form, walking a man to load the bases. Things got worse in the next at-bat when he flubbed an infield grounder, allowing a run to score.

"Jesus, brown guys on every base," moaned Petie. "And the crown prince of Cuban baseball coming to the plate."

Manny was batting in the cleanup position for the Keys—the spot he had coveted when playing with the Busters, but that Wilson Boyd had filled. Here was his chance to prove his new team had it right.

"Don't groove it, Jonesy," yelled Petie as if his teammate could hear him. "Throw your breaking ball. He'll chase it."

But the pitcher, anxious not to fall behind any more hitters, put a fastball where Manny could feast on it. At the crack of the bat, Petie screamed, "Oh, shit. What did I tell you?"

The ball flew high and hard, disappearing into the center field bullpen for a grand slam. The stunned Filibuster fans went silent, showing no love for their former hero as he trotted around the bases. It was five to nothing, Keys—an Opening Day disaster.

Petie pounded the table, rattling the dishes and glasses. He buried his head in his hands and then struck the table again, hard enough to bruise his hand. Kristen and I jumped in alarm, while Marta maintained her incredible poise. I thought, is she from another planet? We watched the pitching coach visit the mound, a little late it seemed, to try to coax the Busters' ace through the rest of the inning.

My cell phone rang. "I'll bet I know who this is," I told my companions.

Petie said, "Lemme guess, it's the hot girl reporter calling to gloat about her brown stud. Why don't you take it outside? I don't wanna hear it."

I jumped on this suggestion. I stepped out the door, past the lurking Hoss, and retreated a short distance down the corridor before I answered the phone. Jessie's excited voice exploded in my ear.

"Oh, Randi, wasn't it great? Manny really needed to do something big. Maybe this'll blast him out of his funk. I'm going on the air after this inning, and it'll give me something to smile about."

"I'm happy for you both," I said, "but it's not such a happy time in the owner's box. Petie is drinking and ranting."

"I hope you're not matching him drink for drink."

"I'm sticking to wine," I said. "It's not like I'm working today, but I do want to keep my wits about me."

I filled Jessie in about my companions in the suite and mentioned that Petie was going to be honored for his humanitarian work. Then I told her that Petie had alluded to being set up with a series of Cuban women, for reasons apparently obscure to him, and that he had mistakenly referred to the one he was with now as Maria.

"Madeline's been setting him up?" asked Jessie.

"He didn't say so. But he tried to get the current one to admit she knew Javy Castilla. This woman—her name's Marta, not Maria—claims it's not true. Says she only answers to President Ramirez."

"President Ramirez, shit. I know perfectly well she means Guadalupe Ramirez. I wonder what in hell this Marta babe is up to."

Attempting a soothing voice, I asked, "Don't you think Guadalupe's already done all the damage she's capable of?"

"I don't know. Why don't you probe a little? Talk to the woman. Get friendly with her, and maybe she'll spill something."

"I can try," I said, "but don't expect miracles. I'm not the ace reporter in the family."

"Has Petie said anything else noteworthy?"

I chuckled. "He's just being his usual charming self. God's gift to women, you know. Claims he's been known to cause catfights at a much higher level than this."

"How high?"

"He's probably just bragging," I said, reflecting that most of Petie's boasts, even if exaggerated, were based on facts. "He already told us that Madeline's had her claws in him. That's high enough for me."

"I gotta go," said Jessie. "Keep at it, and we'll talk later."

I returned to the suite and conversed as best I could with Marta. My attempts at small talk proved awkward, so I waited until Petie was preoccupied with fondling the blonde and then lowered my voice. "I was wondering—how did you and Petie meet?"

Marta's relentless smile did not waver. "We met at a social function."

"Petie said something about being set up with you and other embassy women." This produced no discernable reaction.

I plunged ahead. "Do you know that woman called Maria, who hooked up with Petie here at the ballpark last October? He mistook you for her at first."

"He was just confused. He knows perfectly well who I am."

Within minutes both of my "rivals" discovered they had urgent business elsewhere. Marta's cell phone rang first. After a brief conversation in Spanish, she excused herself, saying that something had come up at the embassy.

"Say hello to Javy and Alfonso for me," teased Petie as she exited the suite.

Kristen's phone rang next. I gathered from listening to her call that she was being summoned by a congressman from her home state of Kentucky to the NARC demonstration, which evidently was still going strong on the Hill. "I got an invitation to that myself," I told her.

It took me a few moments to realize that she and I were on opposite sides of this divide. Kristen was on her way to join a pro-life counter-demonstration being organized by the Kentucky delegation.

"Good for you," said Petie, sending her off with a sloppy kiss. Licking his lips, he added, "Abortion is murder, plain and simple."

I stared at him in disbelief. Would he have stuck to that "plain and simple" view if I had inconveniently wanted to bear his child?

"Only it's pretty lily-livered, trying to stop abortionists with a bomb," he continued. "If it was me, I'd pick them off with a rifle."

"Idiot," I hissed.

He looked at me, startled. "Oh, sorry, toots. I guess that was insensitive. Don't pay me no mind. It's just a redneck thing."

I let it pass. As we found ourselves alone, he continued, "I'm glad those two are outta here. You're a lot brainier than they are, and a lot less distracting. I'm sure it's okay with you if I just sit and watch the game awhile."

But nothing was happening on the field to lighten his mood. At the end of the third inning, the Busters still trailed five to nothing and had not even gotten a man on base. Petie winced when an announcer on the TV broadcast, visible on the monitor nearby, intoned, "Mrs. Manny Chavez, a happy newlywed and expectant mother, will be joining us from home at the top of the fourth inning."

"That's all I fucking need to make my day complete." Petie's scattered attention returned to me. "I gotta know something, Miranda. How well do you and the hotshot girl reporter get along? I'll bet you're insanely jealous of her marriage to the brown stud. Admit it."

This made me angry, but I managed a calm response. "Jessie and I have always been competitive, but close. We push each other to achieve."

"Nothing like a catfight right in the family," needled Petie.

I tried to switch back to interviewer's mode. "Speaking of catfights, who were you talking about when you said powerful chicks had fought over you?"

Too clumsy again. "Sorry, babe," laughed Petie. "That's classified information."

We turned our attention to the TV monitor, where Jessie now appeared, propped up in bed and looking relaxed. Petie said, "I gotta admit, your sister's still hot, even when she's that knocked up."

Interviewer Bob Erickson began with softball questions about her health and Manny's, which she handled with ease. She had had a scare, she conceded, but everything was fine now. She was staying in bed for the next few weeks to make sure everything remained fine. The baby, a girl, would arrive around mid-season. Her stepson, Bobby, was doing great also. As for Manny, he had just demonstrated in the most convincing way possible how well he had recovered.

The interview was broadcast over the action as the fourth inning started. The questions from Erickson's partner were edgier. "Have you been in touch with Guadalupe Ramirez, who's reportedly in the ballpark today?"

"No," replied Jessie, "but she's spending some time with Bobby right now, and that's fine with Manny and me."

"I know Manny has expressed his gratitude to the Filibusters for the great years he had with them. Still, isn't it especially important for him to succeed against his former team?"

Jessie replied, "Of course it is. Although, as you said, he does cherish the years he spent in DC. He would gladly have stayed here, but Mr. Carter chose to let him go."

I started to get nervous when Jessie was asked if she and Manny harbored any ill feelings toward Busters management. "Not about leaving the team," she replied. "We both know that's part of the baseball business. But I have to say, the violence inflicted on Manny in his own ballpark last autumn—well, no one can say that was business as usual. I'm a little distressed that the authorities no longer seem to be pushing the investigation. Maybe they think it's a closed case now that Manny has returned safely. But as far as I'm concerned, there are still many unanswered questions."

As the inning unfolded, the Keys threatened to increase their lead. Seeing this, the interviewers milked the story. "It's our understanding, Jessica, that the Cuban government not only formally apologized to Manny for the incident, but paid him for his services to the Cuban team. Are you satisfied with those concessions?"

"Those were part of the agreement that enabled top Cuban officials to enter the United States for today's game."

"Including Manny's former wife," remarked the interviewer.

"As I say, it's part of the agreement. I can live with that. But—"

I was tense, hoping that Jessie wouldn't blurt her wilder suspicions. The interviewers went silent, as if anticipating something good.

"C'mon, babe, spit it out," snarled Petie. "You think Petie Jansen let the kidnapper get to your precious Manny on purpose. Say it on TV, and I'll sue your pretty ass."

"It seems to me it wasn't only the Cubans who benefited from the crime," said Jessie.

She paused to measure her words. "I know the Ramirez family was out to settle a personal score. They don't deny it. But they certainly needed help to pull it off. How did they get an armed woman through security at the ballpark? Nobody has explained that."

"The Carters maintain that there were security lapses but that the problems have been corrected," said Erickson. "Are you dissatisfied with that explanation?"

"Bob, I want to know how the Cubans ever got into a position to take advantage of so-called security lapses. Someone helped them get in. That's all I'm saying."

"Who do you think—"

"Look, I'm not prepared to accuse anybody of anything at this moment," said Jessie. "Guys, something tells me I've said enough."

They let her go with best wishes for the momentous months ahead.

I was amazed at the nerve Jessie had shown. Petie kept staring at the TV monitor as if Jessie were still there. "Your sister's sure got a big mouth. But I still say she's one hot chick."

"You got any ideas about the questions she raised?" I asked him.

"Like what?"

"Like, how did that Cuban babe named Maria penetrate the area with a gun?" I paused. "Or did someone arm her after she got in?"

"I mighta let her in, but I sure as hell didn't arm her."

I took a blind plunge. "Petie, are you absolutely sure you didn't? You were awfully drunk and angry that day. Is it possible—"

"No, it ain't possible. I'm just as drunk and angry now, but I don't have no gun. I gotta go through metal detectors just like a regular person."

"Then how do you think—"

"I don't get what the big mystery is, anyway. I'd be willing to bet all those embassy types are packing heat wherever they go. You don't think they're real diplomats, do ya? Shit, they're spies. The Carters probably could care less about that. They got their own little army here, in case you didn't notice."

Stymied, I said no more. We settled back as best we could to watch the game, which the Keys now led seven to nothing. The Busters' fourth inning passed with still no base runners. Again Petie pounded the table in frustration, while forty-five thousand Busters fans moaned and cursed. I shared their angst, finding that I was still an ardent Busters fan despite having a brother-in-law on the opposing team. "Jonesy" was lifted for a reliever when he ran into trouble again in the fifth.

"At least tomorrow'll go better with Olgesby starting," predicted Petie. "I know that sumbitch is chomping at the bit to mow down his old team."

Before the Busters came to bat in the fifth inning, the video that Petie had made with Madeline Carter was shown on the center field JumboTron. Petie's new humanitarian image earned him cheers from the home crowd. To keep it going, he limped to the window and waved to the fans. After his preening appeared on the TV monitors, the cameras panned the stadium and caught several signs and banners with get-well messages. The fans seemed to know that Petie Jansen was the missing ingredient in their punchless lineup.

But Petie was scowling as he returned to the table. "Damned video cut me off at the end, when I tried to plug myself as a hitting coach."

"Come on," I said. "You can hardly expect Madeline to commit to hiring you as a coach without talking it over with her daddy first."

"Why the fuck not?" He whipped out his cell phone and searched the electronic Rolodex. "She owes me, big time."

"Does she?" My stomach lurched from the overload of garlic I'd had on my pasta.

"Where the shit is she? This is supposed to be her family's suite, her private vantage point. Maybe she's in the stands with hubby, campaigning for high office. Or down in the clubhouse, checking out the merchandise. That's what really turns her on."

As he punched in the number, I wanted to flee. What if his call summoned Madeline here? From what I'd heard, she might be capable of violence in close quarters. But if I ran from her now, how could I face Jessie later?

I stayed put as Petie's phone rang in his ear. "Pick up, bitch," he muttered. After a minute, he tossed the phone on the table. "She ain't talking to me."

I started to breathe again. The waiter came by to take my plate and fill my coffee cup. I reclined in my seat as I sipped, while Petie went on pummeling the "boss lady."

As soon as the waiter left, Petie took the bottle of pills from his pocket and waved them in my face. "I have her to thank for these, y'know." He popped another one and chased it with his drink. "Or her favorite doctor, at least."

"Madeline Carter takes—OxyContin?" I asked, reading the label.

"Dunno if she takes it herself. She has one of the team docs doling it out to players who she feels need a spark. I can only vouch for myself that it sure makes me feel fine. More than fine."

"That's because you have no self-control," I blurted.

He glared at me. Then he laughed. "That's what she thinks. She knows the stuff makes me erratic, and she uses that. I've let her up till now, but I'll tell you something. She's about to lose control."

•

By the sixth inning, Petie was growing confused. He had stopped watching the game, saying it was out of hand. Polishing off his third or fourth gin and tonic, he told me he was glad I was here as his guest, because it proved he wasn't prejudiced against dark-haired ladies. How could he hate Hispanics when he loved senoritas?

"Snap out of it, Petie," I ordered. He was known to mix up his babes when he was drunk, but I didn't intend to tolerate it.

"I gotta say you're the prettiest one I've been set up with so far. But the one I really wanna meet is the queen of the Commies, your boss lady. What's her name, Gwadalupy?"

"I'm not one of your Cuban cuties," I said. "I'm Miranda. Otherwise known as Mrs. Thomas Stone."

But he remained unreachable by that logic, and I thought I might make use of his confusion. Suppose I pretended to be Marta—or Maria? "By the way, Petie," I purred, trying to imitate Marta's soft lilt, "do you remember who first set us up?"

"You tell me," he said. Then he started to ramble through murky terrain. "All I know is, when the boss's daughter gets you invites to snazzy parties and you keep running into the same kinda chick, it's gotta be on purpose. And when they're Commie chicks, you're getting into some deep shit. I ain't as dumb as I look, y'know. I figure Mad has some vital, top secret political reason for whatever she does."

I need to pursue this, I thought, no matter what. To hell with the alleged bugs in the suite. "What was the kidnapping supposed to accomplish?"

"How the fuck should I know? I guess the powers that be wanted a handy excuse to invade Cuba. But they musta lost their nerve, 'cause they backed off from conquering the hellhole when they had the chance. Not that I give a shit about politics, or ever did. I just wanna get back to playing ball, be a hero again, do a little partying on the side."

"But was Madeline behind it? If so, why? Manny was her father's employee, after all."

"I dunno." Petie licked his lips with evident lust. "All I know is, Mad wants to be an Amazon queen. One of those power chicks who rule the world from behind the scenes."

I floated Jessie's theory that an East Coast militia movement had made a deal with the Cuban embassy to transport Manny south.

"Don't ask me about shit like that," said Petie. "You're so smart, you figure it out. Look, I don't give a fuck if Cuba rots or turns into baseball paradise. I got enough of my own problems."

I wanted to believe Petie was an unwitting participant in the events. It was time to find out for sure. "When you let me into the tunnel that day—did you know what I was gonna do to Manny?"

Petie shrugged. "You was talking some trash about the two of us having a common enemy."

"Did you know what I meant by that?" I asked.

"I didn't wanna know. I said I didn't."

"You must have pointed me toward the elevator that you knew Manny would be getting on."

Petie shrugged again. "Don't remember."

"I'd like to retrace my steps. How about taking me there right now?"

"No way," said Petie. "Madeline's got security goons everywhere these days. Even cameras in the tunnel now. They see us snooping around, they might shoot us."

"And yet, no one stopped Maria that day—stopped me."

Petie stared, and I sensed the fog was lifting. The ring of my cell phone startled us both. "It's Tommy," I said, giving up the ruse.

As I answered the phone, Petie went back to watching the game. The Busters were mounting a comeback.

"Randi, you're at the ballpark, right?"

"Yeah, I got off work for the afternoon," I said. "Actually, for much longer than that."

He didn't pick up on this. He just said, "I'll be there myself a little later."

"Oh really? What made you decide to come today?" I paused. "Or should I say, who?"

"Madeline called and asked me to join her in the presidential suite. Deirdre Smith Gordon is on her way."

"That sounds like an exciting meeting."

"It'll get even more exciting when Guadalupe Ramirez arrives."

"Wow," was all I could manage to say.

"Madeline thinks she might need some help with—whatever comes up," said Tommy. "I wanted you to know so you wouldn't be surprised if you saw me at the ballpark."

"Thanks," I said.

If this doesn't beat everything, I thought. Both of us coming to the ballpark to meet up with the people we had affairs with. And both of us being okay with it.

"So you're the obvious person to deal with Guadalupe?" I asked.

"I've done it before."

"Oh, that's right."

I reflected that he had never revealed much about what had gone on during the meetings in Havana. Now he told me he must ensure that certain agreements made at that time did not unravel. On her arrival in the United States two days ago, Guadalupe had announced her intention to revisit the custody arrangements for her son.

"Well, enjoy yourself with those ladies," I said. "You'll probably have a better time than I'm having. The Busters are losing, in case you wondered."

As usual, Tommy cared nothing about the game itself. Instead, he moved on to further business. "There's something else I need to tell you," he said.

"Well?"

"Madeline wants to see you, too. In fact, she wants to see you now—before the others arrive."

I swallowed hard, and Tommy heard me. "What's the matter?" he teased. "You're not scared of her, are you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm just wondering what she wants with me. I've never even spoken to her before."

"She says it's time she met you face to face," said Tommy. "She also mentioned you might like to catch up with your old friend Deirdre."

He paused, allowing me to take this in. "Look, I know it's likely to be a little ... awkward. But it might also be a good thing for you to face her. Anyway, you won't be alone with her for long. Try not to worry about it."

"I'm not worried," I declared. "Is she coming here ... to get me?"

"She said she'd send somebody to take you up to the presidential suite. That's her base today, since she's going to be entertaining the president's daughter—and Mrs. Ramirez." With that he hung up.

I had barely finished talking to Tommy when my escort arrived—the same grim-faced, armed man in the three-piece suit who had brought me to the owner's suite. I tried to take gracious leave of Petie, but he was busy cheering a surprise home run by his replacement, Clay Milton, and didn't seem to notice.

I was nearly out the door when he turned around and yelped, "Hey, wait a minute. If you see Mad, tell her she can't avoid me forever. One measly check for my foundation ain't gonna buy me off."

"Okay," I said. "Got any other messages for her?"

He grinned at the stone-faced guard and winked at me. "Here's an idea. See if you can get her to dish on her Oval Office technique. I wanna know if she takes the prez there the same way she took me at the Belton League—practically standing up, so she can tell herself it don't really count."

Seeing the guard grimace, I choked back my laughter. I promised solemnly to pursue the Oval Office inquiry if I got a chance.

"'Course, I can tell you exactly what her answer will be." Petie mimicked a prissy voice: "'I'm sure I don't know what you mean by that.'"

* * * * *

### Chapter Ten

"Come with me," commanded the special agent.

As I followed him out of the owner's suite, he pushed past Hoss, the regular guard on duty. Hoss glowered but said nothing.

The man did not take me directly to the presidential suite. Instead, I found myself alone with him again in a holding room near our destination, undergoing another security check. I was beginning to think I was facing a strip search this time, when Madeline Carter stepped through the door and told him, "That's really not necessary. I know this young lady."

After he left silently, I confronted Madeline with what I feared was a weak smile. She was even more imposing in close quarters than she had seemed at a distance. Almost six feet tall, she wore a gray business suit that accentuated her height. Her medium-length blonde hair looked as if it had been ironed. Her gray eyes matched her suit and were piercing.

"We've never been formally introduced," I managed not to stammer.

"But we seem to know each other all the same, don't we?" said Madeline.

How could I possibly answer this? It seemed dangerous to acknowledge any prior awareness of her, although she had hovered in the backdrop of my life for months.

"I do remember the first time I saw you, about eight years ago. My sister and I were attending one of Deirdre Smith's conferences for college women at the Virginia State House. You gave a talk advocating women's use of firearms."

"I've given quite a few speeches like that," said Madeline, "but your sister's reaction was particularly memorable. She came close to calling me a neo-Fascist."

"Jessie can be quite outspoken," I said. "I'm sorry if she insulted you."

"I take it you don't totally agree with her view on that issue, since you've been known to frequent the shooting range at the Tex Belton League."

"I've been there a few times with my husband, Thomas. He's taught me about firearms."

Had I thrown down a gauntlet by mentioning Tommy? If so, Madeline ignored it. She continued, "Jessie was combative again today, wasn't she?"

I admitted that she had been.

"I imagine Mr. Jansen has been the same way," said Madeline. "A temperamental character, to say the least. What did you and he talk about?"

I was beginning to feel claustrophobic in this small room. I wondered if Madeline intended to interrogate me. If so, I knew I must stand my ground and learn something about her, as well.

I told her that Petie and I had been speculating about how an armed Cuban woman had managed to penetrate ballpark security last October. Petie admitted to letting her in, but he claimed he had not known, or wanted to know, her intentions.

Madeline replied tersely, "We've taken measures to ensure that such a breach will never occur again."

"But it happened once," I heard myself say. "It seems someone should be held responsible."

"As I said, we've taken responsibility." She spoke with an eerie calm, her eyes growing hard. "What else did Petie say?"

I was rattled, which tended to make me foolishly honest. "He said he thought you were avoiding him—in spite of the large check you handed him today."

"I imagine he's feeling insecure. His replacement, young Milton, is playing rather well."

"He thinks he'll be back on the field by mid-season," I said.

"Our doctors don't agree." Her tone was cold. "They think he'll be out for the season, if not longer. I think Petie realizes that too, deep down."

I was angry on Petie's behalf. He was right about her—she was a total user. She goaded me further by asking, "Did he have any other gems of wisdom?"

"Actually, he did. He told me your technique is to bribe him with booze and girls, and lately, even pills. That you set him up with several Cuban women for your own mysterious purposes. That you made use of his confusion at a vulnerable moment."

"What mysterious purposes? I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"He could turn on you," I added, "especially if he thinks you're about to discard him as damaged goods."

"My, my. You're as outspoken as your sister, aren't you?"

Her glare made me sweat. I tried to return the look, even when her next statement made my jaw drop. "Are you also as clever a writer as Jessie? I understand you have a screenplay in the works. I'd just love to have a look at it sometime."

"That could be arranged," I said.

How on earth had she found out about my screenplay? Her knowledge of it made me feel scared—and a moment later, powerful.

Madeline moved on. "What did you mean by that odd question you posed at my husband's press conference on Saturday? You mentioned my personal friendship with the president and wondered if I had ever discussed Manny Chavez with him. Why would I have done that?"

"Jessie wanted me to ask the question, because she couldn't be there to ask it herself." So as not to hide behind Jessie, I added, "I still think it was a legitimate question."

"Really? What were you insinuating about my relationship with President Smith?"

"Nothing," I said. "Your relationships don't concern me—at least, that one doesn't." I wondered if she noticed my passing reference to her affair with Tommy. Again, I detected no reaction.

"Understand something, Miranda. I sincerely regret what happened to Mr. Chavez—especially that stadium security failed to protect him. I'm an executive of this organization, but I can't control everything that happens at the ballpark. My authority here has been superseded on numerous occasions."

"How can that be?" I asked.

"Furthermore," she continued, ignoring the question, "if it were up to me, there wouldn't be a Cuban embassy on American soil. Or it would be treated as a necessary evil, and steps would be taken to contain it. I certainly wouldn't treat its employees as honored guests."

There was no mistaking her venom. She would have called it "the spic embassy" if that hadn't been too undignified. She continued, "I suggest you take up this subject with your old friend, Deirdre. It was her security detail that had charge of the premises that day, not mine. And that's all I have to say about the matter."

Madeline stepped to the door and summoned the agent who had brought me upstairs. "Isn't Mrs. Gordon here yet? We're waiting to be escorted into her presence."

The man frowned and replied, "Mrs. Gordon has arrived."

"Two hours into the game," commented Madeline, checking her watch. "I wonder what delayed her this time. State business, or babysitting problems?" The agent grimaced and held his silence.

"How long has it been since you talked to Deirdre?" Madeline asked me as the three of us proceeded down the corridor leading to the presidential suite. While I considered this, she added, "By the way, we may be entertaining a foreign dignitary before the day is over. I hope you're ready."

I was more than ready to end my one-on-one interview with Madeline and plunge into whatever catfight was brewing at the most exalted level. Outside the door, both Madeline and I obeyed the special agent's order to open our handbags for one last security check.

•

I must have gotten a little blasé about experiencing the luxury of the "regular" suites. By comparison, the presidential suite blew me away. It was at least twice as large, with numerous chandeliers overhead, even plusher carpeting, a full bar, and what looked like a private bathroom.

Deirdre was sitting alone at a table, cocktail in hand. Within her reach were several trays full of snacks such as canapés, shrimp, and sushi. As she rose to greet me, I couldn't help remembering that televised moment last fall when she had been caught spitting out her drink after seeing several Hispanic players on the Busters squad turn their backs on her father.

I smiled at the memory, and Deirdre smiled back with the determined sweetness I remembered from our school days. I took in her short, bouncy haircut and tight, girlish mini-dress—a stark contrast to the dignified Madeline. She invited both of us to sit down, summoning a bartender to bring us drinks. Madeline requested white wine, while I decided to stick to water. Then Deirdre eyed the wedding ring on my finger and asked me what my husband did. What, no kids yet? No, not yet, I replied. We were both busy with our careers. Then I remembered with a jolt that I had just walked away from mine.

"You and Jessie have always been career minded," remarked Deirdre. "But I know she's been forced to take a break. When I spoke to her a few days ago, I urged her to stay in bed as long as necessary."

I said, "She appreciated your call. I think she's resigned to being—inactive for a while." I wondered if that word might resonate unpleasantly with this role model for stay-at-home moms.

"It seems her physical inactivity hasn't stopped her wheels from turning," said Madeline.

"Yes, I noticed that, too." Deirdre giggled, as if Jessie's ruminations on the air had been fluffy gossip.

Even when I had known her years ago, I had suspected that Deirdre's niceness was less than sincere. That feeling came back to me now. The cuter she acted, the more convinced I became that she could have plotted Manny's kidnapping at the behest of her Florida ally, Javy Castilla. Further, she could have wrapped her deliberations in White House secrecy and set up the action on Madeline's turf to make her look like the main plotter.

Hold on a minute, I ordered myself. Isn't that the storyline Madeline was trying to sell me back in the holding room? Why should I necessarily believe her?

"Jessie ought to stop obsessing about Manny's kidnapping and leave it to the professionals," said Madeline. "That kind of agitation can't be good for her."

"No, it can't," agreed Deirdre. "I assured her the FBI is doing everything possible to reconstruct the events of that day."

"Really?" I heard myself exclaim. "It doesn't seem to me like the FBI has been doing everything possible—or much of anything, lately."

"Our power is limited in an international matter like this," said Deirdre. "We've asked the Cuban government for an accounting, but that could be a slow process."

I recognized this as a diversion. The tone of the get-together became smiley and jocular, three girlfriends catching up. It reminded me of my old college sorority. I could think of "Madeline" and "Deirdre" types in that club—girls who partied and gossiped together with ease, only to turn combustible whenever dicey issues came up.

My two companions moved away from the topic I had raised and fell into family talk. Deirdre wondered if Madeline planned to involve her teenagers in Donald's campaign. She knew how tough public life could be on kids, although hers were younger than Madeline's. Madeline said her kids were too busy text messaging their friends and listening to their iPods for hours every day to involve themselves much in politics.

When the women inevitably began discussing their husbands, they grew testier. Madeline described herself as a mere handmaiden in her husband's campaign, and Deirdre chided her for complaining. "You know, sometimes our job is just to look decorative and demure. That's the best thing we can do for our men."

"Easy for you to say," shot back Madeline. "You're decorative and demure by nature. I'm not. Sometimes I feel I could do more for Donald by being myself."

"No, you couldn't. Frankly, Madeline, the voters you most need to cultivate might not take to the real you."

Madeline thrust her hardened jaw at Deirdre. "By the real me, I suppose you mean the tough career woman. That's what you object to?"

"Not at all." Deirdre's round face flushed, but her smile did not falter. "I object to your insinuation that only career women work hard. I'm here in Washington all the time, supporting my husband's career when I'd rather be home in Florida. You think that's not work?"

As the women paused, I seized the moment. "Excuse me, but could we get back to the question I was posing?"

"Which was?" Deirdre regarded me with wide eyes.

"How did an armed Cuban woman get through ballpark security last October? And what about Petie Jansen's claim that he was set up to help her get through?"

Incredibly, both women gave me smirks as they took up the issue. "Well? What about it?" Madeline asked Deirdre. "You're the one who considers the Cuban embassy a legitimate organization whose so-called diplomats must be treated as honored guests at the ballpark and everywhere else they go."

"And you're the one who hangs out with militias," replied Deirdre. "You treat the descendents of Tex Belton like patron saints."

These leads seemed promising, so I pressed on. "I'm trying to understand why the kidnapping happened. I'm not accusing the administration of anything. But I can't help wondering, was there ever a plan to conquer Cuba?"

Each jumped to address the strategic question. Madeline declared first, "The United States could conquer any enemy, given sufficient determination and will."

"Would you please give the warrior thing a rest?" countered Deirdre. "We all know about your ex-Marine daddy and your prowess with guns. And you never stop reminding me that my father didn't serve in the military. But he knows when to fight and when to negotiate."

"What are you insinuating? That I tried to influence your father to fight instead of negotiate?"

"Excuse me—" I tried again.

I wished I hadn't interrupted. The two political women stopped short and collected themselves, smoothing down their skirts and fluffing their hair as they strove to recover their gossipy tones.

"Well, Madeline," said Deirdre, "you haven't told me how you and Don are coping with the stress of campaigning on a larger stage. You already have a commuter marriage, and I know his Senate run is going to add even more pressure."

"We're adapting to the increased scrutiny," said Madeline. "There isn't anything I wouldn't do to support Donald. But I do have my own career to consider, too."

This threatened to put the discussion in turbulent waters again. "The voters you most need to appeal to care about family values above anything else," said Deirdre smilingly. "Of course, I realize Ernest and I are downright boring compared to you and Don. We're the farthest thing possible from swingers." I took a swallow of water the wrong way and had a brief coughing jag.

Madeline hardened her jaw again, but protested, "Many people tend to misinterpret my personal friendships. Including you, it seems." Her plaintive tone, to my surprise, roused my sympathy. Something told me that Donald had cheated on her first, making her own misadventures something of a natural reaction.

Suddenly, Madeline lurched forward in her seat. I followed her gaze to the door and gasped to see Guadalupe standing there with a dark-haired, dark-eyed child. The boy seemed to stare at us in alarm.

"Hello, ladies," Guadalupe said in her exaggerated accent. Her intense eyes swept over us. "May we join you for a few minutes?"

Deirdre and Madeline exerted themselves to welcome the future first lady of Cuba. I was curious to see who would be friendliest with her.

"It's nice to see you again," said Madeline. "Both you and Bobby are looking well."

"Thank you," said Guadalupe. She grabbed the little boy's hand and pulled him with her farther into the room. "Though I prefer that my son be called Roberto."

"Yes, of course." Madeline grimaced for an instant. "My mistake."

I said hello to Bobby and got only that solemn stare in response. Deirdre reached out for the child and coaxed him to accept a hug. She proceeded to question Guadalupe about her pregnancy, which looked to be as far along as Jessie's.

I waited for a chance to restart a substantive discussion. Deirdre had assured me that the U.S. government had asked Cuba to explain its role in the kidnapping. Here was Guadalupe in our presence, representing that nation, and the president's daughter was gushing about her wiggly belly. Then Madeline asked Guadalupe how she was adapting to life as a newlywed in Havana's presidential palace.

"It's an exalted prison," was Guadalupe's startling reply. "I'm doing my best to adjust. Of course, I'm grateful for the opportunity to serve a great nation."

"I guess there's always a price to be paid for acquiring power," I put in.

As Guadalupe turned toward me, my head filled with questions I longed to ask her. Are you planning to maintain that innocent façade forever, while you go on reaping benefits from Manny's kidnapping? Did you really come here to declare the visitation agreement unsatisfactory? If renegotiations are successful, will you then be prepared to leave Manny and my sister alone? Or is it possible you still love him?

I was trying to frame an inquiry that wouldn't anger her when I noticed Bobby eyeing me in particular. I had met him twice before, at times when Jessie and Manny had brought him to Sunday dinner at Mom and Dad's house.

"Do you know who I am, Bob—Roberto?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "You're Aunt Miranda."

Still looking at me, after a few moments he asked, "Where's Mamma?"

I was dumbstruck. Should I try to answer this? Guadalupe's glare was poison. She snapped at the child in Spanish, and he began to cry.

I was ready to slap the witch. I said, "Come here, Bobby. It's all right."

I hugged him and tried to explain "Mamma's" absence. She was making a little sister for him to play with when he was in the United States, just like his other mamma was working on a brother or sister for his visits to Cuba. Bobby calmed down and nodded as if he understood.

Guadalupe regarded me glumly while I offered this explanation, but it seemed she had decided not to make a scene. She confined herself to a few pointed remarks about the luxury of these surroundings, expressing concern that her son would turn into a "little capitalist" from exposure to the super rich. She sipped from a bottle of water that she had brought with her, while Bobby ate some tortilla chips and drank a Coke that Deirdre ordered for him. He settled on my knee and chattered about the game, especially Papa's home run.

After a few minutes of this, Guadalupe stood up abruptly and grabbed Bobby's hand. "Say good-bye to the ladies, Roberto. We must go."

"So soon?" asked Madeline. "I believe we have some business to discuss."

"I'm aware of that. I have other people to see, and then I'll be back."

I felt a pang of fear as Guadalupe pulled Bobby away from me. After all, she had fled with him once before.

Guadalupe joined a bodyguard outside the door and disappeared. Madeline turned to me. "Well, Aunt Miranda, what have you done?"

"What have I done?" I repeated.

"You showed up Mrs. Ramirez as a bad mother. That's no doubt why she stormed off."

"Maybe you're more ready to have kids than you thought," Deirdre added.

The two speculated about my maternal capabilities, trying to prod me to admit that I was anxious to follow my sister's example. They went on and on until I finally exploded in a fit of impatience.

"Would you mind telling me why you're entertaining the future first lady of an enemy nation? Especially one who may have plotted my brother-in-law's kidnapping? And why is she roaming freely through the very area where it took place?"

"She's hardly roaming freely," said Deirdre. "She's the State Department's responsibility while she's in the country. Rest assured, she's being monitored closely."

"By ballpark security? That worked really well before, didn't it?" They both recoiled at this jibe. "What if she's still dangerous?" I continued.

Madeline asked Deirdre, "Why don't you try answering that? I suspect you know Guadalupe better than I do."

"What makes you think that?" responded Deirdre sweetly. "You've conducted a few negotiations with her, if I'm not mistaken."

"I've always negotiated out in the open. Who knows what back channels you and your daddy use?"

Deirdre shrugged this off as the women turned their attention to the game, which had suddenly become exciting. The Busters still trailed, but the score was now seven to four in the seventh inning. They had the bases loaded with two out and Wilson Boyd at the plate. The three of us watched as Boyd worked the count full against the Keys' hardest throwing reliever. He fouled off several well-placed pitches.

The remarks passing between Madeline and Deirdre became increasingly barbed as Boyd prolonged the suspense. I realized for the first time that they were enemy rooters. The political fortunes of Deirdre's husband were tied up in the refurbished Florida Keys, a team that flaunted its diversity in the face of Madeline's Busters. Everything that happened on the field further enflamed the conflict that had already been brought to the surface by Deirdre's earlier "swinger" comment.

Wilson Boyd stood in for what must have been the twelfth pitch. I knew him well enough to know he was capable of hitting a grand slam solely to make a political point—and incidentally, to prove he was as big a star as Manny. Having imagined it before it happened, I barely reacted when Boyd's bat smacked the ball. I guessed from the sound of it that it would reach the right field upper-deck bleachers, a longer distance than Manny's earlier home run. It did.

Wilson took his time rounding the bases, grinning at Manny as he passed first base, strutting past the other infielders, high-fiving teammates as he made his way back to the bench, taking bows for the ecstatic crowd. The Busters had come all the way back from a seven to nothing deficit, erasing the memory of the first five hitless innings. They now led eight to seven and could taste victory.

My companions absorbed the drama in silence for a few minutes. Then Madeline remarked, "I'd say we did all right with our personnel moves these past few months. We figured Boyd would end up as our number one star this season. He sure picked the perfect time to prove it, didn't he?"

"Enjoy your vindication," replied Deirdre, "but it's a long season ahead. And even this game isn't over yet."

I knew she spoke the truth, but her smile looked pasted on as the Keys posted a scoreless eighth inning. Although her team trailed by only one run, she then left early with her security detail "to get a jump on the crowd." Her good-byes were almost as abrupt as Guadalupe's had been.

The fans continued their celebration as the Busters' new closer, Randy Oakes, took the mound at the top of the ninth to protect the small lead. Oakes had been signed six weeks earlier to replace Jose Pasqual, who was now with the Keys. Many Busters fans believed Oakes would prove tougher than Pasqual. At least he looked more intimidating on the mound, with his short crew cut, stocky build, and steely stare. He had joined the Tex Belton League soon after his arrival in Washington and had already had established a reputation as one of the group's most eccentric loners. Even Wilson Boyd, who had sponsored his membership, wasn't permitted to approach him while he was taking target practice. "It's a sacrament to him," Boyd had told his television audience.

I found myself alone with Madeline again—another awkward interval, but this time it was mercifully brief. After receiving a message on her BlackBerry, she smiled at me and said she had enjoyed our visit, but now she must attend to some front-office business.

"Why don't you go back and see what Petie's doing?" she suggested. "Someone has to keep him out of trouble."

I suspected the message about business had been from Tommy. It was his turn to go one-on-one with the boss lady.

I took Madeline's suggestion and returned unaccompanied to the owner's suite, one level down. I walked in to find Petie far from alone.

* * * * *

### Chapter Eleven

Guadalupe sat opposite Petie, sipping a gin and tonic. She was leaning toward him, conversing in a discreet voice. He was grinning at her in his appraising way. Somehow he had seduced her into drinking with him, as medically inadvisable as that might be—not only for her, but for him. Was he also caressing her under the table? I must have looked shocked, because when he saw me, he jerked back in his seat with a guilty smirk. Bobby, oblivious to the grownups, was watching the game.

"It's the painkillers," Petie told me in a conspiratorial whisper. "Always make me horny. Especially around powerful chicks."

He turned back to Guadalupe. "So explain to me again, sweetheart. Why'd you order your bodyguard to bring you here to meet me and then make himself scarce?"

"I wanted to experience for myself this legendary ballplayer who seems to have such a way with Cuban women."

"How convenient is that?" replied Petie. "I myself wanted to experience the top senorita of them all. And I gotta say, the prettiest one yet."

"Please understand who you're talking to. I'm not the top one or the prettiest one. I'm the only one."

Bobby, jumping up and down below the television monitor, yelled that the Keys were about to come back against Oakes, although the closer had wasted no time retiring the first two batters in the ninth. "Just wait till Papa comes up!" the five-year-old declared.

Petie explained to him, not unkindly, that his father wouldn't get another chance unless the next two batters reached base—and that would be tough against this pitcher, who was "dealing."

When Bobby noticed me, he said, "Aunt Miranda, don't you think my papa could hit another home run?"

Guadalupe put down her drink, which seemed to be disagreeing with her. She got to her feet and declared, "I'm on my way to the Keys clubhouse. I've been asked to pass on greetings from the Ramirez family." She motioned toward Bobby while pulling out a BlackBerry.

Petie implored, "Don't run away mad. I get nervous when chicks walk out on me. At least stay till the game's over."

Guadalupe sat back down, but she protested, "The public relations woman for the Keys is expecting me."

"What an honor that'll be for you, representing the Commie co-owners," said Petie. "Hey, why don't I escort you down there? It'd be my way of showing I don't really hate the brown team as much as it looks like when I'm spouting off."

Guadalupe took another sip of her gin and tonic. I seated myself at the table but refused Petie's offer of a drink. We watched the TV monitor, where the current Keys batter was staving off defeat by barely making contact with a series of breaking pitches.

"You two seemed pretty friendly when I came in," I ventured.

"We were just watching the game together," said Guadalupe. "It's a good one."

"Now don't go pretending you know anything about baseball, sweetheart," laughed Petie. "If you cared a fuck about the game, you'd still be with your ex, the brown stud. Admit it, you ain't here just to see your Keys play. You're here to stir things up. Am I right?"

"Why would I do that?" asked Guadalupe, smiling.

"'Cause you're just like me, pissed at the way things have been going down and wishing a real American-Cuban war would break out. I feel like you and I are both warriors under the skin. We make enemies for keeps. We wanna kick their butts till they surrender." Petie gazed admiringly at Guadalupe.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." She had picked up Madeline's phrase. "That's all in the past. My purpose here is reconciliation."

"Y'know, the more I talk to you, the more I think I like dark ladies best, after all. Give me a mysterious brunette over a bubbly blonde any day."

"Is that so?" Her smile intensified.

"We both wanted to fight to the finish the first time," he resumed. "But there was too many goddamned wimps down there in Havana hankering for a compromise. We know who got rich from that, don't we?"

"The oligarchs won out," said Guadalupe in a disgusted voice.

You phony, I thought. You got stinking rich from it, yourself.

Petie pressed, "So tell me. What's your real reason for wanting to visit the Keys clubhouse?"

"Just as I told you, I'm representing my country and my family. It's no secret we have a stake in the team."

"Ah, bullshit. It ain't even really your country. You was an American till you cut Manny loose, right?"

"I never felt like a real American in my life," protested Guadalupe, evidently forgetting she had once represented Miami in a preliminary Miss America contest.

"So you're gonna march on down there and throw some weight around. Seems like that oughtta be your new hubby's job. Where is what's his name, by the way?"

"Alfonso Junior has business at the embassy this afternoon," said Guadalupe.

"Oh yeah? What's her name?"

Guadalupe flushed and set down her glass abruptly, spilling most of its contents. So there must be some truth to Petie's jibe, I thought.

"I'll bet it's that chick who was here earlier," said Petie. "Maria or Marta or whatever. No use getting your feathers ruffled over her. You married a budding dictator, so what'd you expect? All the babes serving him are fair game."

"I'm going now," said Guadalupe, rising again. "Come along, Roberto."

Petie lurched to his feet, more quickly than you'd expect given his injury. "I'll tell you the real reason you're going down there—to have it out with Manny. And why would you wanna do that, you ask? Cause you still love the stud, that's why."

"I still love the man who humiliated and betrayed me before the whole world?" She laughed strangely. "Actually, I hate him."

"You and me both. But I bet it's more of a love-hate feeling for you."

Guadalupe couldn't find the words to deny this. For the moment all conversation ceased, and we focused on the TV monitor, where Oakes was still battling the Keys' last-chance batter. "C'mon, Oakesy. Mow him down," said Petie. "Damn, that'll be sweet. I want the Busters to crush this immigrant team every time we face them."

Oakes delivered a low, inside pitch that had the batter flailing. It was strike three, but the ball got past the catcher. The batter took first base on the wild pitch. Now the possible go-ahead run was coming to the plate, and Manny was on deck.

The batter was Ray Beltran, Castilla's most prized export from Cuba. Beltran was known for his fine hitting eye and decent power.

I lamented aloud Oakes's failure to put away the last batter, which necessitated facing the heart of the Keys order.

"Bullshit," replied Petie. "A dude like Oakes lives to face down the best studs the other team can send up against him. You just watch him blow this guy away."

As Petie predicted, Oakes served up nothing but fastballs. Beltran fouled off three of them, lining the last one into the left-field bleachers, barely foul. Such a close call should have made the pitcher more cautious, but Oakes, determined to muscle the ball past the batter, followed up with another ninety-six-mile-per-hour fastball. Beltran got hold of this one, too, blasting the ball in the same direction as the last, but keeping it straight enough to pass the foul pole on the fair side.

"Oh shit!" Petie pounded the table several times with his fist and swept his glass to the floor. He flexed his hand as if he had broken it—a perfect accompaniment to his broken leg. Once again, I was as distressed by this development as the other forty-five thousand Busters fans in the ballpark. My brother-in-law was coming to bat to try to add to the Keys' sudden one-run lead, and I was hoping he'd strike out.

If Oakes were smart, he'd put a clamp on his emotions, bear down against Manny, and take advantage of the slugger's free-swinging style to get him out. But even so, I wasn't at all surprised when Oakes reared back and fired, aiming the ball behind Manny's head. It was a "message" pitch, intended to scare the batter without hurting him, unless he flinched in the wrong direction and stepped into it.

Which Manny did. The resounding thud as the ball hit the protective plastic helmet and bounced off could be heard as distinctly as the crack of a bat. Manny instantly fell to one knee and then sprawled on the ground, his helmet flying off.

"My God!" I exclaimed. "Did the dumb bastard kill him?"

Petie said, "Ah, don't get hysterical. If the brown stud had stood his ground like a man, it wouldn't've hit him. He just got his brain rocked a little."

For an agonizing minute, Manny didn't move. I tried to read Guadalupe's expression but couldn't.

The Keys manager accompanied the trainer onto the field to attend to Manny. Players poured out of both dugouts and mingled at the scene, as if waiting for someone to start a fight. Oakes put on an innocent face and spread his hands in the age-old "it just got away from me" gesture.

When Bobby asked me what had happened, Guadalupe answered before I could, "Your father's old team just tried to hurt him. On purpose." The child looked stricken.

My cell phone rang, as I knew it would. Jessie, sounding unhinged, screamed, "What's happening? I'll bet the Carters ordered that bastard to throw at Manny."

"For God's sake, Jessie, it was just a purpose pitch, not a mortar attack. It's what Oakes does. Look, Manny's sitting up. I'm sure he's gonna be fine."

The trainer felt the player's head, shone a light into his eyes, and appeared to be asking him a few questions. Then he helped Manny to his feet. The crowd cheered its former hero as he flexed his limbs, put his helmet back on, and spoke a few words with his manager.

"I think he's asking to stay in the game," I told Jessie.

"But should he? He might be more shaken up than he realizes."

"He's milking it like a fucking wimp," snarled Petie. I took the phone away from my ear and asked him what he expected Manny to do.

"Charge the mound and take it outta the pitcher. Let his teammates mix it up with our guys. I'd sure as hell be mixing it up if I was down there. But nooo, they're all just standing around like they're scared to take a punch."

"Who're you talking to?" asked Jessie.

"Petie Jansen. He's trying to drum up a war."

"It figures. You've never clearly explained to me why you keep hanging out with a man who's declared himself my husband's enemy."

"I'm hanging out with him," I said, lowering my voice and moving away from the others, "because he's the one who invited me into the ritzy seats today."

"You must have your head in the sand. Or else—"

"Or else what?" I demanded.

When Jessie hesitated, I ordered her to spit it out. She finally said, "Maybe deep down, you consider yourself our enemy, too."

I was deeply shocked. How long had she been nursing this suspicion? As calmly as I could, I responded, "Jessie, listen to yourself. This is paranoid babbling. I'm gonna assume it's the hormones talking, or the heat of the moment."

"If it is, I'm sorry, Randi. It's just that ... I'm so scared for Manny."

"What's to be scared of?" I asked. "Look, he's trotting down to first base like nothing happened."

We both breathed easier, as it appeared the game was about to resume. First baseman Wilson Boyd patted Manny on the shoulder and said something. Nice of him, I thought.

Suddenly Manny turned on Boyd, pushed him to the ground, and fell on him. As the two men rolled over each other several times, the crowd snapped out of its disappointed funk and roared for blood. Boyd's teammates on the field rushed over to pull Manny away, while Keys players from the bench charged the scene.

"Here we go again," said one of the TV commentators. "What is it about these two?"

"This is obviously the culmination of the rivalry that started last year," intoned Bob Erickson. "Even after all that's happened, it seems Chavez still hasn't gotten over losing the Busters first base and cleanup positions to Boyd."

"Holy shit. This is more like it," said Petie, sitting back to watch as if this were the main event. As the fight intensified and punches were thrown, he yelled, "Get those brown fuckers!"

"I can't believe this is happening again," Jessie screamed at me. "What idiotic thing did Boyd say this time?"

"How should I know?" I shot back.

"Can't you guess? He's your friend."

"I'm not a lip reader or a mind reader, but it looked like Wilson tried to joke with Manny, and he overreacted—again. Your husband can be touchy, you know."

"He has a right to be touchy after what he's been through. I'll bet Boyd needled him about having PTSS. It's an asshole thing to do."

"Ballplayers are always needling each other," I said. "They have to be able to take it."

Jessie was seething. "I'm still waiting for you to tell me why you're always defending both of those gun-toting idiots, Jansen and Boyd. You want to be their militia madam or something?"

"I've had it with your insinuations." I stomped my foot in frustration. "If you want to accuse me of something, spit it out."

I had never hung up on Jessie, but I was close now. It would be a monumental act. As angry as we could get at each other, we had always talked things out. We had never failed to reach an accommodation that might or might not prove satisfactory, but that at least affirmed our basic sisterhood.

She provoked me again. "Why don't you ask your fabulous date, Petie, if he had a hand in this? Maybe he sent out signals to some of his Buster buddies to pick a fight."

"From where I'm sitting," I insisted, "it was Manny who picked it."

"Well, I'll bet Petie's just eating it up," she said.

It was true. He was now on his feet, pounding the floor with his good leg and shouting for bloodshed. Guadalupe, equally aroused, was cheering on the Keys. I refrained from telling Jessie that she was present.

The umpires, with the help of managers Carter and Rivera, soon restored order. Manny from the Keys and Oakes from the Busters were ejected. My warmongering companions in the owner's suite seemed deflated.

Jessie, by contrast, was furious. "The least they could've done was eject Boyd too," she huffed. When I pointed out that Manny's aggression had left the umpires no choice, she accused me again of siding with the enemy.

I thought she might hang up on me, but instead she adopted a pleading tone. "Randi, be honest. Why are you with that jerk right now? What are you really doing there?"

I took the phone away from my ear again and listened to Petie. "It damn near happened," he declared. "Just what I been waiting for—an all-out war between us and the spics. Trust me, it's gonna happen on some ball field one day real soon."

"And if it does," retorted Guadalupe, "the Keys will be ready for it."

I put the phone back to my ear. "I have my reasons for being here, Jess. There's an interesting dynamic going on. I can't talk about it right now."

With that we ended our conversation, agreeing to talk again after the game. The Keys were retired without further damage in the ninth. The Busters would now get their chance to overcome the one-run deficit. Petie quieted down after voicing his expectation that his teammates would inflict some damage with their bats.

Jose Pasqual, the former closer for the Busters, took the mound for the Keys to face the heart of the order. Petie predicted that the young pitcher would suffer the same kind of meltdown as he had in the championship series the previous fall. But today Pasqual looked equal to the task when he began by striking out Clay Milton, getting ahead with his fastball and then mixing in his breaking stuff.

As the next batter stepped in, Bob Erickson's TV partner remarked that this third spot in the order had belonged to Petie Jansen before his unfortunate accident. The team had moved its promising second-year shortstop, Ryan Garland, into that spot, but Jansen's clutch hitting would be missed, especially in a pressure situation like this. "He sure as hell got that right," laughed Petie.

A couple of pitches later, Garland came through with a base hit, prompting Petie to yell, "Way to go!" But he scowled when Erickson chimed in to suggest that Jansen might not be missed as much as originally thought.

The affable-sounding announcer expanded, "There've been whispers coming out of the Filibusters front office that Jansen is not in their plans for the foreseeable future, if ever. Not only is the broken leg a messy one, but it happened off the field. And there are questions as to whether Petie can be depended on to stick with his rehab. If the Busters choose, they might build a case to void his contract."

"They might do _what_?" yelled Petie. He picked up the glass that he had already knocked to the floor and hurled it at the television. It shattered against the face of the monitor, leaving a crack. Guadalupe and I scrambled out of his way as he reached for another glass. I pulled the frightened Bobby close to me. I was prepared to scream for Hoss, hoping he was nearby, but Petie was stopped in his tracks by the ringing of his cell phone.

He answered it with a snarl. "What could you possibly have to say to me now, boss lady, after what I just heard on national TV? You gonna fire me here and now? Or cut off my drugs?"

He listened to Madeline's explanation, his eyes fixed on the television. Wilson Boyd was at the plate, about to get another shot at being a hero.

"So you're 'suggesting' I go on a peace mission to maybe help save my career? That's real big of you, Mad. And if I do it, could I maybe 'suggest' you put out a press release saying those fucking windbags on ESPN got it all wrong?"

The suspense on the field intensified as Boyd worked the count in his favor, to three balls and one strike. The crowd stirred with renewed hope. "Looks like we ain't beat yet," continued Petie into his phone as he kept an eye on the field. "You want me to do this shit whether we win or lose?"

He laughed at her answer. "You're still a helluva diplomat, Mad. I never know what you're up to, but it don't matter. I get off on being your errand boy."

Then he shut the phone, muttering, "Bitch is a total user." He looked at Guadalupe. "She thinks it'd be just dandy if I went to the Keys clubhouse with you so we can all sing 'Kumbaya' together or some shit like that. Whaddaya think?"

"Perfect," murmured Guadalupe.

Their quick agreement set off an alarm in me. I didn't know who I distrusted more—Petie or Guadalupe. But together they might prove lethal.

"I guess I gotta do it," said Petie. "I just hope I don't choke on it."

"What did you mean when you said you got off on being Madeline's errand boy?" I asked.

Petie shifted his unsteady gaze to me. "It ain't a bad gig, y'know. I hear your hubby gets off on it, too."

As Boyd hit a loud foul ball, making the count full, Petie mused, "Only what if she's lying this time? What if she and her daddy end up junking me, anyway?"

Boyd fouled off several more pitches, exciting the crowd. He had done the same before his grand slam in the seventh. Petie said, "Wilson better come through again, 'cause if we lose, I ain't gonna feel like going down there and congratulating those fuckers."

"The Keys are gonna win," declared Bobby.

Boyd finally got the pitch he wanted, and he hit it hard on a line—right at the first baseman, a rookie substitute for Manny. The youngster speared it and stepped on the base to double off the runner. Just like that, the Busters threat was ended, and the Keys were celebrating their victory with the customary high fives in the middle of the diamond.

Cussing loudly, Petie made ready to finally hurl that second glass at the television. I shouted for Hoss. He entered with his hand on his holstered gun.

Petie glared at him. "What're you looking at?"

"If you break that TV, Mr. Jansen, it'll cost you."

"You think I can't afford to pay for it?" demanded Petie. "The boss lady ain't cut me off completely yet."

"How about saving that money for those poor mountain kids you say you want to help?" I asked. My plea seemed to have some effect. Muttering an apology, he dropped the glass, and the guard returned to his post outside.

"Shall we go downstairs and greet the winners?" asked Guadalupe. "Or are you not up to it?"

"Who said I'm not up to it?"

Guadalupe brandished her BlackBerry again, but Petie frowned. "Don't call your armed guard, okay? Makes me nervous. Place is already crawling with bastards who look like they'd shoot me down if I said boo. I can take you down there myself."

They both glanced at Bobby dubiously. Guadalupe addressed me in a saccharine tone that was accompanied by a sour look. "Maybe you wouldn't mind watching Roberto while I'm doing this errand. You and he seem to hit it off so well. He obviously adores his Aunt Miranda."

Guadalupe had picked up a hint of Deirdre's phony sweetness. She and Petie left the suite together before I could protest. I turned my attention to Bobby, who was upset and confused. He was glad the Keys had won the game, but why wasn't Papa involved in the postgame high fives? I tried to reassure him, wondering if he were still haunted by his father's disappearance for several weeks last fall.

I settled down with Bobby in front of the cracked TV monitor to watch the postgame show. "I'm sure we'll see your papa any minute," I told him just as my cell phone rang. I answered.

"Hi, Randi," Tommy said. "Just wanted to let you know I'm in Madeline's office. What's the situation over there?"

"Guadalupe and Petie are on their way to the Keys clubhouse on some sort of goodwill mission," I said. "I've been elected to babysit Bobby while they're gone." I moved away from the child and lowered my voice. "His mother seems to desert him at the drop of a hat. She probably won't give him another thought until she needs him for some reason."

"I see," said Tommy. I then heard his muffled voice speaking—presumably to Madeline—on the other end of the line for a moment.

When he came back on the phone, I asked, "What's the matter? Isn't the clubhouse visit Madeline's idea?"

"Nothing's the matter. How were Petie and Guadalupe getting along?"

"A little too well," I said. "Kind of an interesting dynamic, considering they just met."

I had barely gotten this out when an ominous thought at the back of my mind began to surge to the forefront. I said urgently, "Tommy, will you do something for me, right now?"

Hesitating only slightly, he said, "Of course. Anything. What is it?"

"I need you to come to the owner's suite and look after Bobby while I go downstairs to the clubhouse level."

"Go downstairs?" he repeated. "Why?"

"I need to catch up to Petie and Guadalupe and—pursue a hunch. A strong hunch."

I got the feeling he was nonplussed that I would ask him to babysit while I took off on an adventure. I reflected that he had refused to take me on his trip to Cuba, claiming it was "too dangerous," but he had never seemed scared for himself.

"Don't go, Randi," he finally managed to say after a few seconds of silence. "You don't know what you might be walking into."

"I think I do. Just trust me for once, okay? And get over here right away."

Even if he were just being a concerned husband, I was determined not to let him interfere with my plan. I stepped outside to speak with Hoss, explaining what I intended to do and assuring him that my husband was on his way to look after the child. Tommy was still on the phone, trying to talk me down, as I asked the guard for directions to the Keys clubhouse.

"Jesus Christ. What good reason could you have to stick your nose in there?" Hoss demanded.

It looked like he was going to be a stickler for rules, as he had been last fall. I could think of no plausible answer to his question, so I lied. "Mrs. BushnellMadeline Carterhas asked me to join Mr. Jansen and Mrs. Ramirez in the clubhouse as—her representative."

The guard looked unconvinced. I was afraid he would try to check up on my story. Recalling Jessie's failed attempt to bribe her way past him last fall, I knew I wouldn't be trying that ploy. But I was determined to see this through, and the intensity on my face seemed to make him recoil.

"Man, I'm sick of this shit," he muttered.

"I'm sorry. I know my sister and I have been thorns in your side."

"I didn't mean you," he said.

I waited for him to spill something. He seemed to battle his customary stoicism, and then he let himself go. "It ain't like I can do my job worth shit, anyway, with all these special security details to the high-and-mighty marching in and changing the rules. I gotta let so-called diplomats and mystery women wander around like they own the place. I don't decide who gets shook down. But who you think gets blamed when all hell breaks loose?"

He didn't seem to expect an answer. "Look, miss," he continued, "I don't know what you're up to. But I'll tell you how to get down there. That's all I'll do, understood? I don't know nothing else about it."

"Fine," I said. "That's all I ask."

Through the open door, Bobby was watching and listening with fearful eyes. "Aunt Miranda, where's my papa?"

"I'm gonna go find him right now, sweetie," I replied. "While I'm doing that, you can hang out with Uncle Tommy. He'll be here in a moment."

Even as I listened to the guard's directions, "Uncle Tommy" was still protesting in my ear. I was sure he would rather face gunfire than responsibility for a five-year-old boy.

The guard directed me to an obscure elevator, the only one nearby that connected the suite and clubhouse levels. Once down there, I had to take a long walk through the tunnel, which wound halfway around the stadium, to locate the visiting team's clubhouse.

"You sure in a hurry," said Hoss suspiciously. Then, evidently remembering that he didn't want to know anything, he quickly motioned me away, adding that he would look after the child until Tommy arrived.

A minute later, I was on the elevator, which seemed interminably slow, when my cell phone rang. It was Jessie. She began by apologizing for our earlier blowup.

"Christ, Jess, I'm way beyond that. I'm in the middle of something else." I explained where I was headed and why and reassured her that Bobby was safe in the owner's suite.

"Tommy doesn't want me to do this," I continued, "but something tells me I'm about to blow the lid off a few things. Actually, Petie and Guadalupe are gonna light the fuse, and I'm gonna help. I know it sounds crazy. It's just a hunch, but a strong one."

Jessie was silent for a moment. Then she said, "Be careful, Randi. I don't like the sound of this. For one thing, I'm afraid Guadalupe's going down there to confront Manny."

"She claims she's on a peace mission," I said.

"Yeah, right. I wish I were there myself instead of stuck in this bed. I'd throw myself in the bitch's path to keep her away from Manny. I can hardly ask you to do that for me."

"Maybe you can. I've had the same thought myself." I tried to feel as heroic as I sounded.

Jessie sighed. "Isn't there any way to keep Guadalupe and Jansen out of that clubhouse? Peace mission my ass. And it's Madeline's idea, to boot. I'll bet she's trying to throw a bomb in there, so to speak."

"Why would she do that?" I got off the elevator and hesitated, trying to remember which way I was supposed to turn.

"Who knows? Maybe because she's jealous of Deirdre and her baseball team. And just plain pissed about today's game."

Hurrying through the tunnel, I explained that Madeline had disavowed being the real power in her own ballpark on days like today, when Deirdre's security team took charge.

"What a load of crap," exclaimed Jessie. "She's still trying to dodge responsibility for the kidnapping."

It sounded that way, I conceded. But I had just heard Hoss make the same complaint.

At that moment, my quarry came within sight. I told Jessie I'd call her back.

* * * * *

### Chapter Twelve

I met Guadalupe and Petie in the tunnel before they had managed to invade the Keys clubhouse. Guadalupe stood next to the closed door, while Petie slumped in a chair nearby, resting his leg and grimacing. Both were watching postgame interviews on a TV monitor and had cell phones pressed to their ears, but they were evidently failing to make their intended connections.

Petie cussed at the sight of Wilson Boyd holding forth inside the clubhouse. Wilson must have taken it upon himself to charge into the Keys dugout from the field after the game. I guessed he was on his own goodwill mission. He and Manny were standing on either side of Bob Erickson, each taking turns at his microphone. Guadalupe agreed with Petie that this attempt at fellowship was phony and staged.

Prompted by Erickson, both players had apologized for their earlier fight, calling it a heat-of-the-moment incident that had nothing to do with their long-standing respect for each other. To drive home the point, ESPN was showing a video replay of the great fielding maneuver that Manny and Wilson had pulled off as Busters teammates on the last day of the championship series. Having combined their talents as right fielder and first baseman to cut down a Keys base runner at the plate, Manny and Wilson had high-fived and hugged one another as they'd returned to the dugout.

"I can't believe what a goddamned wimp Wilson's turned into," raged Petie. "If it was me, I'd be knocking some heads together in there. I'd have the new-look Cuban Keys begging to go home."

"They're just as ready to fight as you are," retorted Guadalupe. "And face it—they're not going home as long as the big money's here in the States."

Guadalupe looked away from the TV in disgust and noticed me. "Well, if it isn't Aunt Miranda again. I'll bet you're insanely jealous of your sister, being married to my ex. Who else can turn on the charm in front of the whole nation like he does, thirty minutes after making a total ass of himself?"

Ignoring the jibe, I said, "Looks like Wilson and Manny are done fighting. Did the two of you come down here just to stir things up again?"

Petie and Guadalupe eyed each other but didn't reply, instead returning to their attempted phone calls. I realized they weren't out here of their own volition but were having trouble gaining admission to the Keys clubhouse. I gathered that Petie was attempting to reconnect with Madeline Carter, while Guadalupe now began barking out orders in Spanish to somebody at the embassy.

Frustration reigned. Finding Madeline inaccessible, Petie hurled the phone against the clubhouse door, and then he threw his crutch. Guadalupe, also denied, shut her phone and fumed. They seemed to regard one another with a growing recognition of mutual injustice—and I was the only one here to try to diffuse their rage.

I wormed my way in between the two and began to wheedle. "Listen, guys, what would you accomplish in there, anyway? I have a much better idea. Let's round up Mrs. Ramirez's bodyguard and have him take us out on the town. Maybe we can find a hot spot or two nearby where they serve spicy tacos and tequila, or something even stronger."

"Excuse me," said Guadalupe, laying a hand on my shoulder and pushing slightly. "Why are you here? You were supposed to be looking after my boy."

"Bob—Roberto is fine," I said. "He's with my husband." A lot you care, I thought. Your child never crossed your mind until you got annoyed with my interference. I pity the one you're carrying now.

Guadalupe continued, "I left him with you, not your husband. So I suggest you go back and take care of him as you said you would."

"He's fine," I insisted. Every minute away from you, I added silently, is a plus for the kid.

Petie had begun pounding the clubhouse door and yelling for someone to open up. Finally, one of the Keys players let us in. Petie recovered his crutch, and we headed toward the media gaggle in the press conference area. Wilson and Manny had concluded their televised interview, but they were still being pumped by other reporters for their feel-good story as they drifted in opposite directions through the throng.

We approached Wilson but were stopped by a husky Hispanic guard. "None of you authorized here. Gotta leave right now," he said in heavily accented English.

Petie stared in disbelief and then let out a guffaw. "Are you fucking kidding? You ain't no cop. What are you, a bouncer? You get your fat ass out of my way."

"No, man, I got my order. Please, you don't make no trouble. Just leave."

"You got any fucking idea who we are? I'm Madeline Carter's best player and favorite stud when I'm healthy. And this here's the future first lady of Cuba, whose family owns part of this team. You know what that makes her, idiot? Your boss lady."

"No, man," said the guard. "I'm taking order from Mr. Rivera, the manager, and he no want you here. Say you're a bum. And he don't want her—" he pointed to Guadalupe—"bothering Manny no more."

"What's your name?" she demanded. He told her it was Jose.

"Listen up, Jose. You need to call the public relations officer ... Missus ..." She grappled for the name, as the guard stared at her blankly. Then she said, "Fuck the public relations officer. My husband is at our embassy right now. If you give me any more trouble—"

But this threat also died on her lips. Evidently she had failed to contact Alfonso Junior only moments ago. "You can just tell Mr. Rivera, and Mr. Castilla, and everybody else concerned that I've got unfinished business with my ex-husband. And nobody is going to stand in my way."

"Mr. Rivera and Mr. Castilla in charge of Keys team," said Jose, "not no Cubans."

"Listen, sweetheart," said Petie, "don't even bother arguing with this tub of lard. I'll take care of him."

He tried to shove the guard aside, but the bigger man pushed back. The ballplayer tried again, but his weak right leg hampered him. Taking a swing at the guard, Petie lost his balance and stumbled. "Oh fuck! Oh shit!" he yelled in pain, grabbing his leg and toppling over.

I retrieved his crutch, which he had dropped. "You don't understand," I told Jose. "Madeline Carter asked Mr. Jansen to come here as a representative of the Filibusters. To—to help make amends for the earlier incident on the field."

"Too bad," said Jose. "That not what I hear. If you all don't leave now, there gonna be big trouble."

I asked, "Why? We don't mean any harm."

I didn't expect an answer, but I grappled with the question, myself. Why must this animosity continue? The owners of both the Keys and the Busters had obtained what they'd wanted without bloodshed. Castilla had shaken hands with the president of Cuba on a super-deal, and two ethically cleansed ball teams had risen from the mess. Hard-fought, pressured contests were to be expected whenever the teams met, but must there always be bad blood?

Moaning as he struggled to his feet, Petie looked defeated. Against all odds, he tossed aside his crutch again, sprang at Jose from a crouched position, and knocked him to one knee. The guard reached for his weapon.

"Look out, Petie!" I screamed. "He's going for his gun."

Before I knew what was happening, Guadalupe had grabbed the pistol from Jose's holster. She pointed the weapon unsteadily at the guard.

"Looks like I'm giving the orders now, Jose. I want you to bring Manny to me."

I gasped, "Why? You're kidnapping him again?"

"I didn't kidnap him the first time. It just happened. He and I were swept up by political forces beyond our control."

Petie groaned. "Jesus, enough with that political mumbo-jumbo."

"Agreed," exclaimed Guadalupe. "It's personal this time. I'll deal with Manny myself—no courts, judges, or armies between us."

Jose scrambled to his feet and reached for his walkie-talkie, but Guadalupe ordered him to drop it. The normal postgame turbulence continued all around us, spurred by continuous, high-volume talk along with tango music. I spotted Manny on the opposite side of the room, giving an interview to a Spanish-language radio station.

"You might have to shoot Manny to get his attention," chuckled Petie. "I got a better idea, babe. Gimme the gun."

Guadalupe eyed him for a long moment. "Why should I trust you?"

"'Cause I know how to handle a gun. And I know what you want done."

She seemed to be considering this when her cell phone rang. She kept the weapon pointed downward in her left hand while answering the phone with her right. After a quick, testy conversation in Spanish, she shut the phone and told us she was being summoned to the embassy.

Petie asked, "Was that hubby? About time he returned your call."

So far I had been amazingly calm, possibly because I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I reasoned that the urgency of confronting Alfonso Junior might supersede Guadalupe's little coup in the Keys clubhouse. Maybe she would return the gun to Jose and leave peaceably.

But that proved to be a pipe dream. Instead, speaking in a loud, fast whisper, she set out a macabre plan. "I'm gonna slip the gun to you, and then I'm gonna leave quietly," she told Petie. "I'll walk to the embassy car, which is waiting for me outside. And you," she continued, scowling at Jose, "if you know what's good for you, will summon Manny across the room for a friendly handshake with Petie."

"You really think he's gonna wanna shake hands with me?" laughed Petie.

"Probably not, but he'll do it for appearance's sake. As soon as he sees you're armed, you'll force him to stroll out of the clubhouse with you, toward the nearest parking lot. If you're discreet enough, the self-absorbed fools in this place will never catch on—and Manny will end up in the embassy car with me."

"Are you fucking crazy?" Petie laughed again. "I'd get caught for sure. Think I'm going to prison for twenty years just so you can have your ex back? That ain't none of my affair."

"Your life's a screwed-up mess, anyway," coaxed Guadalupe, "so why not escape with me? I could get you a job coaching baseball in Cuba, with all the perks—a cushy apartment near the beach, and all the margaritas and senoritas you'll ever want."

Petie's eyes lit up. He said, "Far out ... I could go for that. Blow off my own country, since nobody'll give me a fucking job here. But can you really do all that?"

"Try me. You'll find I'm quite a powerful woman."

They exchanged warm glances. "Be firm but gentle with Manny," she ordered, handing Petie the weapon. "Reassure him he has nothing to fear from me—as long as he deals with me honestly this time."

"Yeah, right. Whatever," said Petie, examining the pistol with interest.

After Guadalupe slipped away, Petie turned to me with a grin. "Christ, another power chick struts her stuff. She's the ballsiest one I've seen yet. How do you like my latest assignment? Abduct Manny, like it's no big deal."

"Since when do you take orders from Guadalupe Ramirez?" I didn't know what to do other than try to reason with Petie. "Instead of helping her commit a crime, why don't you put a lid on this nonsense right now?" I gestured toward the simmering Jose, whom I feared might try to take back his gun.

"Don't get me wrong," continued Petie. "These power chicks are hot, all of them. The owner's daughter, the president's daughter, and now the future dictator's wife. But that don't mean the whole universe bends to their will."

"Then why do you always jump to their commands?"

Petie gave me a puzzled look. "It ain't that. I don't take orders from women, no way. They just use me when I'm vulnerable." His expression hardened. "But you got a point, babe. It's about time I did something for me instead of them. Grab some power myself. To hell with—what did she call it? Being discreet."

He lifted the gun over his head and grabbed his crutch. Pointing the weapon at the ceiling, he limped toward the interview area. Still, no one noticed him or me. He had to shout at the top of his lungs to make himself heard. "Look here, everybody. The cripple has a gun."

The room went dead silent. Reporters, half-dressed players, and guests alike scrambled out of Petie's way. Waving the gun without pointing it, he moved to occupy the press conference stage, where Manny and Wilson had posed in friendship only minutes before. Now Petie positioned himself at the podium and spoke into a microphone.

"I been asked to represent the Carters here today, and they're a gun-toting family who'd never expect me to invade enemy territory unarmed. So you brown fuckers are warned, don't mess with me. That goes for Senor Rivera and even Senor Castilla, if he's listening."

Petie caught sight of himself on the TV monitor and grinned. "Jesus Christ. Looks like all of a sudden I'm the star of this show. Who knew? Poor old pathetic Petie, written off as damaged goods, can still grab a spotlight. Guess I better clean up my language if y'all are expecting a speech."

No one else spoke. Players froze in front of their lockers, while the typically voluble media commentators fell dumb. The several cameramen present covered the story silently.

Petie scanned the room, his bleary eyes growing intense as they hit points of interest. He located Manny and winked at him.

"Lemme see if I got this straight." He gestured toward Manny with the gun, but he still didn't point it. "I'm supposed to abduct you from the clubhouse and take you to your ex-wife, who's waiting outside in her official car. She's all set to escort you back to Cuba—or at least to that little patch of Cuba on our soil. The horny broad must really want you back, dude, the way she kept talking about unfinished business. I think it's 'cause she found out her new hubby, the dictator-to-be, is chasing skirts."

"Okay, man," said Manny in a shaky voice. "I'll do whatever you say, on one condition. You let everybody else go."

"Wow, what a brave stud," laughed Petie. "I bet the whole room would go for that, and everyone'd call you a hero, too. But I ain't too sure about it."

He turned to the opposite side of the room and made eye contact with Wilson Boyd.

"How about it, Wilson?" Petie gestured again with the weapon, this time a little more emphatically. "You being my buddy, I can trust your opinion. Should I abduct Manny on his ex-wife's say-so? And accept her offer to get me outta the country, too? Is that what a real man would do?"

"No way, Pete. You know better," said Wilson. "It ain't a fair fight 'cause you're armed. If you wanna take Manny on, put down your weapon and step outside with him. It's gotta be man to man."

"That wouldn't be a fair fight, either, now I'm a cripple," moaned Petie. "And my leg hurts like hell right now." He put the gun down on the podium in front of him and reached into his back pocket for Madeline's pain pills. He swallowed one dry and then continued, "But y'know, you got that right. Abducting Manny would be a piddling thing to do. I'm way too much of a warrior to get off on that. What I really wanted was to conquer Cuba when we had the chance. Guess I'm kinda doing that now, in my own way. But I still say we shoulda done it down there, so we wouldn't have to do it here."

I inched toward Wilson, who wasn't far away. He was Petie's friend and probably the only person here who could reach him. Once by his side, I murmured, "He's both drunk and high. He could do anything."

"Nah, don't think so. He's in total control—so far," replied the first baseman quietly. He was smiling at Petie, as if trying to pass off his clubhouse takeover as a joke. Then he added loudly, "Since you got the mike, Pete, why don't you try explaining to us what the fuck you're doing up there? Or better yet, entertain us with one of your comedy routines."

Petie responded, "Wilson, you're a fucking Judas. You showed me that earlier by posing with Manny Chavez like he's your blood brother or something. But you just gave me one amazing idea. I'll make a—whaddaya call it—an inaugural address, since I just conquered this space and made myself dictator."

I stole a glance at Manny. He had the desperate look of an escapee who had fallen back into the trap. His fearful eyes met mine and then shifted toward Wilson Boyd, propelled by bitterness and suspicion. Had that joshing tone convinced him that Boyd and Jansen were accomplices?

My cell phone rang, and my heart lurched. The caller ID indicated it was Jessie. She must know what was going on, since the television coverage had not stopped. Other phones were ringing all through the room, as well.

Petie said, "Go ahead and answer, everybody. I ain't surprised you spics all got cell phones but no guns. Typical of you people. Go ahead and tell the whole world, with my blessing, that I've taken over the Cuban clubhouse. And that I promise everything'll be cool—as long as I don't see any fucking cops in here."

When I said hello, Jessie almost yelled at me, "Randi, are you all right? Is Jansen serious?"

"It's a real gun he's holding," I replied, keeping my voice low, "so I have to assume he's serious." But I couldn't be sure.

As we both paused and listened, Petie suddenly lightened the mood. He launched into a comic monologue about himself, one of his typical country bumpkin routines.

"What's he gonna do to Manny?" asked Jessie in a teary voice.

"Maybe just scare him. If he really wanted to hurt Manny, he'd have gone along with Guadalupe's plan—which was to walk him out at gunpoint to join her in the embassy car."

Jessie demanded, "Where is she now?"

"As far as I know, still waiting in the car. With armed escorts, no doubt."

"What's to keep Jansen from changing his mind and doing what the crazy bitch wants?"

"Nothing, I guess," I admitted. "But right now it's Wilson he's dumping on. He called him a Judas."

"I don't buy it. I think Boyd's in league with Jansen. They're plotting to do Manny in."

"I keep telling you, Boyd and Jansen are totally different people." But it seemed hopeless to argue this distinction now.

"I don't trust Boyd, and you shouldn't, either," said Jessie. "Randi, why don't you get out of there? The media are saying the clubhouse door and emergency exit are locked, but a few people have slipped out. Why can't you?"

"Yeah, I did just see two reporters with portable tape recorders leave. But I don't know if Petie will let me. I think he might be planning to hold a few of us ... hostage."

"Why you? Maybe you're trying a little too hard to become a heroine."

This goaded me into snapping, "I have no desire to be a heroine. I just want to help the situation if I can. Right now Petie's attention is bouncing back and forth between Manny and Wilson."

"Oh God," moaned Jessie, "he could take Manny out on a whim."

"Petie's beef isn't really with the Keys. It's with the Busters. He went ballistic when he heard on the broadcast that the Carters were thinking of writing him off."

Jessie informed me, "I just heard the DC police are on their way. What if they try to storm the clubhouse?"

"That'd be a bad idea. They better stay out as long as Petie's not threatening anybody directly. He's not holding the gun on anyone. They should let him get whatever he needs to off his chest."

"I can't believe how calm you are," said Jessie. She was trying to steady herself with deep breaths. "I should be the one standing in there bravely instead of you. I never seem to be at Manny's side when he's in trouble. It's killing me that I can't help him now. I'm so scared for both of you that I'm shaking."

The cell phone in my hand had become damp with sweat. "Please, Jess, try to calm down. You can help us by taking care of yourself and the baby. I really think Petie just wants to sound off. He doesn't seem insane to me."

"I think he's insane enough to kill someone," said Jessie, "but I hope to God you're right."

Petie was growing expansive as people listened. He launched into his familiar lament about his hardscrabble youth in the hills of Kentucky, with his two rotgut-drinking parents and three troubled siblings. He renewed the saga of shooting his older brother. In this version he was defending their two younger sisters, and the brother was left permanently incapacitated, but the law had exonerated Petie. A sports scholarship to the University of Kentucky had finally lifted him above the turmoil.

"Don't ask me how, but I stayed in school three years," he continued. "I'm three-quarters of the way to a degree in sociology. Betcha didn't know that, did ya, college boy?"

This last was directed toward Manny, the University of Florida graduate who had married two of his college sweethearts in succession.

"Y'all are probably thinking I got preferential treatment so's I could go to college. I'm just saying that's the way it should work, to prop up poor kids like me who're real Americans. Right, Wilson? Didn't somebody pay your way 'cause you were a promising example of white trash?"

"Hell yes," laughed Wilson. "I was the trashiest white boy at the University of North Carolina in my day."

"That's what I'm saying," continued Petie, his voice cracking a little. "You and I are supposed to be blood brothers. That's why I wanna know what you're doing over here, kissing up to the enemy. You're just buttering them up for some reason, right?"

"They ain't the enemy, Pete. They're just opponents. Ballplayers, like us."

"Excuse me, hotshot, but you used to be singing a whole different tune," Petie reminded him. "You wanted to liberate Cuba from the Commies, no matter what it took. Not that either you or me was ever too political about it. We just wanted them to stay put and not crash our borders, right?"

Wilson said, "I don't deny I woulda liked to see a revolution down there. But it was up to the U.S. military to go for it or not go for it. I found out I ain't no warrior, after all. I didn't care for the idea of guns pointed at me. That's when I kinda accepted being just a ballplayer."

"Bully for you," spat Petie. "I could get off on being just a ballplayer, too. But now my bosses are trying to nix that, so I gotta move on. Might as well go to war."

"Pete, that's just fucking crazy. You'll play ball again."

Now Petie's address to the clubhouse took a dangerous turn, as Wilson lost him. "Look, it's 'cause of you people I got shoddy treatment at that hospital in Florida they took me to after my motorcycle accident." He shook an accusing finger at the Keys players in the clubhouse. "I had to wait in the emergency room while a bunch of illegals with their bullshit problems went first. Doctor didn't come near me for hours. Didn't get operated on till the next day. How do I know that ain't the main reason my leg's still not okay? You people totally fucked up my career."

He pulled what looked like a napkin out of his pocket and wiped his face before continuing. "Look, it just ain't right. I'm a loyal citizen who's fought my whole life for what's good about America. Now a brown horde is invading and taking over everything. Where does that leave me—a goddamned unemployed cripple?"

Felipe Rivera, the rookie manager of the Keys, stepped forward. "Mr. Jansen, can't we talk within reason and agree to something? Everybody on my team still respect you. Don't throw away career."

Petie's self-pity shifted back to rage. He sneered at Rivera, "Sure we can talk—as soon as you learn some English. Let's talk about the great career I still have. Maybe I can find a manager or owner somewhere who agrees."

"Randi, I'm scared," cried Jessie in my ear. "He thinks he's a soldier and Hispanics are the invaders. He could start shooting any second."

"You're not hearing him," I said. "He just wants his career back."

My sister exclaimed, "I'm not hearing him? And you are? What in hell does that mean? Are you still in love with him?"

"I was never in love with him," I said, wondering if this were entirely true. My voice must have gotten louder when I said that. Petie turned his gaze in my direction, and Wilson stepped in front of me protectively.

"You can say you love me, sweetheart," said Petie, his grin returning, "'cause I really am lovable. How can anybody accuse me of hating Hispanics when I fall head over heels for so many dark-haired ladies?" He winked at me.

"Why's he looking at you like that?" Wilson asked me.

"Sometimes when he gets confused, he thinks I'm one of his Cuban girlfriends."

"I may be a horny bastard, but I ain't stupid," continued Petie, with his eyes on me. "That's where you're wrong. You thought you could use a dumb oaf like me to penetrate ballpark security and get to Manny, and I'd never be any the wiser. Or I'd be too embarrassed to admit I was used like a—a doormat or something."

Petie paused and located the nearest camera. I glanced at the split-screen coverage on the TV monitor. On the left, Hoss was being interviewed about what he had seen and heard in the owner's suite earlier this afternoon. On the right, Petie was addressing the nation.

"I wanna say a few words to anyone who might've known fuck-all about the kidnapping plot in advance but somehow avoided getting their hands dirty. Y'all know exactly who you are. Y'all thought I'd be a—whaddaya call it—unwitting catalyst."

I had to find out, once and for all, how "unwitting" he had been. I dodged around Wilson and took several steps toward the podium where Petie stood. Beads of sweat dribbled down my face as I drew the stares of everyone in the room—and for all I knew, the eyes of the nation. Jessie screamed in my ear, "Randi, what are you doing? Are you crazy?" I thought I might be.

"Go ahead, Petie," I said in a shaky but loud voice. "Tell everyone how we pulled it off. You don't care who knows, do you? You were only standing up for your rights."

His grin faded to a contemplative frown, and he seemed to hover on the brink of total disclosure.

"Remember me?" I prodded, trying to bring up a plausible accent. "Maria? Didn't I tell you what the plan was? Didn't you offer to help?"

Petie stared at me blankly for a moment. Then he said, "Maybe I did. So what? I just wanted what everybody else wanted. A team with my kind of players, not foreigners. It's what Mr. Carter wanted, not to mention Mr. Castilla. Christ, just look around this clubhouse. You see any regular Americans in those Keys uniforms? I don't see nothing but Caribbean brown or black."

I heard Jessie gasp, "I knew it." I kept smiling at Petie as seductively as I could, hoping in my heart that he would avoid the trap. I wanted to prove he had been a dupe in the kidnapping and was merely pulling a wild theatrical stunt now. "What did you hope to accomplish? And for whom?"

"For whom?" he repeated sarcastically. "For the power chicks, I guess. The unholy trinity."

"What unholy trinity?" I asked.

"You know who I mean. Those chicks who ran the show behind the scenes, all the way from the stadium penthouse to the White House to the Cuban presidential palace and back again."

"What was their motive?" I persisted.

"Christ, who knows? Maybe Manny's ex just wanted to humiliate him. So she made friends with Madeline Carter, who was trying to show President Smith she has enough balls to be his secret girlfriend. Probably Smith's daughter found out about that and was so pissed she decided to pin the kidnapping on Mad. Or maybe it was vice versa. Who the shit cares?"

"I do," I said, keeping up the act. "I want to find out, here and now, who was ... behind us."

"Then go interrogate the power chicks yourself. I don't give a shit. To me it wasn't never about politics or profit. All I wanted was to be the star of my own team."

"You were jealous of Manny when he was you teammate," I needled.

"Oh yeah?"

He paused to swallow another pill and wipe his face again. Then he emerged from the fog with a swiftness that startled me. "Weren't you jealous too—Miranda?"

"I'm Maria," I pleaded, but I had lost control of this desperate game.

"No use, Miranda. I remember now. You're as jealous of your sister as I am of Manny."

"It's not true." The sweat was pouring down my face, now. "I've always been supportive of my sister, and proud of her."

"You could have gotten off on kidnapping Manny yourself," accused Petie.

"So could you," I shot back. "So why don't you confess? Didn't you know exactly what you were doing that day, drunk or not?"

I stole a glance at Manny across the room. He was looking at me with a perplexed expression that bordered on horror. My God, I thought, could he honestly believe I'm guilty? How could he think I would ever intentionally harm him or Jessie?

Petie furrowed his brows as his eyes roved across the room. It was now deathly quiet except for sounds of heavy breathing.

His gaze hit Manny. "Why the fuck should I confess? Just to give you—whaddaya call it—closure? Maybe I did it on purpose, and maybe I didn't. You'll never know, dude. How do ya like that?"

This taunt was too much for Manny. He lunged toward Petie with clenched fists. It took two teammates, plus Rivera, to hold him back. Jessie was screaming something on my phone. As I put it to my ear, it started vibrating.

"Jessie, Tommy's on the line. I've got to take his call. I'm putting you on hold."

"Don't you dare put me on hold! I need to know what's going on. Why did Jansen accuse you like that?"

"He was obviously confused," I said. "Let me talk to Tommy. He might know what the Carters are planning to do. He was in conference with Madeline before all this started."

"Wait—" she said, but I put her on hold and said hello to Tommy.

"Are you okay?" he asked. "Why did you try to bait Jansen like that?"

"I thought I could use his confusion to get him to spill something. It didn't exactly work out."

"Randi, I need you to let me into the clubhouse. I'll be at the door in ten minutes or less. In the meantime, somebody's gotta calm Manny down or he might get himself shot."

"His manager is trying," I said. But I could see that Petie's taunting grins in Manny's direction were only enflaming matters.

"Why do you want to get in?" I asked Tommy.

"Don't ask. And don't act like anything's up. Just trust me."

"What about Bobby?" I asked. When Tommy hesitated, I added, "You know, the kid you're supposed to be babysitting?"

"Oh yeah. I had to leave him with the guard. Don't worry, he's fine."

That ended my conversation with Tommy, and I went back to speaking with Jessie. After assuring her that Bobby was okay, I asked, "Can you please call Manny on his cell phone and persuade him not to rush Petie again? I understand his need to be a macho man in this situation, but it could get him killed." She agreed to call her husband. I added, "Tommy's on his way down here, and there's a plan. I don't know what it is yet—"

Jessie cut me off. "Tommy and Madeline have a plan? That's supposed to reassure me?"

"If you think you've got a solution," I said, "you're welcome to get out of that bed and come to the ballpark to put it in motion."

"Randi, I'm scared out of my mind. Can I really trust you? And Tommy?"

"What does that mean?" I demanded.

Jessie's words poured out in a rapid jumble of half-formed conspiracy theories. "I've got this funny feeling that Guadalupe has bewitched all of you, and it's been going on for months. I'll bet Jansen slept with her in Cuba. Maybe Boyd did, too, and they've all been plotting ever since to take Manny down. And Tommy could've been the one who introduced them to her in the first place. Come to think of it, even you've been known to defend her."

"Oh? When did I do that?" I asked.

"When she delivered her first ransom message on TV. You said she made a believable victim."

I was taken aback. "I wasn't defending her at all. Jessie, none of the people you just accused really know Guadalupe. You're the only one who's spent quality time with her. For God's sake, Jessie, trust us."

She apologized, albeit unconvincingly, for her suspicions. Meanwhile, I started to edge toward the clubhouse door as we finished our conversation. Wilson eyed me with a raised brow.

"What a nifty setup for a—whaddaya call it—press conference," Petie was saying. "Since it looks like I've conquered this foreign territory, maybe it's time somebody asked me for my world views. How about it, Bob?" He nodded toward the Busters' fresh-faced television announcer, who earlier had written off Petie's career with devastating casualness.

"Well, Petie," said Erickson, "can you describe for us what those views are? Do you have a political affiliation?"

Petie laughed. "Hell no, not an affiliation. More of a philosophy. Let's just say I'm a dedicated womanizer. But I don't mean no harm by it. I really do respect quality women. If I ever said anything to insult them, I apologize."

While I waited for Tommy's knock on the clubhouse door, Petie expanded on his theory that women secretly ran the world, and that being a womanizer—like himself, and President Smith, and many famous men—was the best way to get along with them. Further, you could go back and examine all the great scandals and tragic events of history and almost count on finding catty women at the hearts of each. Take Manny's kidnapping, for example, he explained. Everybody had a theory about who was really behind it and why. But to his mind, it was quite simple. Jealous chicks had conceived it and put the men in their lives up to it. He himself had been merely an "unwitting catalyst" in the crime after all. His near confession earlier was bullshit—he had just been yanking everybody's chain.

Petie interrupted himself to ask Manny, "Who's that you're talking to now?"

"My wife."

"My point exactly. That blonde, brainy second wife of yours is pulling your strings now. That's what's got your crazy first wife so pissed."

"Nobody pulls my strings," said Manny in a barely controlled voice.

"Have it your way, dude. But I ain't never seen a chick that hot who settled for just being a backdrop."

Petie continued to lob remarks about Jessie to a simmering Manny. He laughed at Manny's menacing gestures. "I dare you, dude. Go ahead and give me an excuse to shoot you. I ain't the soul of reason like my pal Boyd. I'd love to kill me some spics."

By this time I had positioned myself close to the door without drawing anyone's notice. Hearing a soft knock, I pushed the door open, and Tommy slipped in. He was wearing a suit coat with a vest underneath, his typical formal attire when meeting with Madeline. He patted his left side significantly.

"Any cops out there?" I whispered.

"Yeah, but they're holding off at Madeline's request. No one wants to set Petie off. But here's the deal." He lowered his already low voice. "Madeline gave me her semiautomatic—just in case."

"In case what?" I asked.

"In case he makes a sudden move." Tommy regarded my former lover, Petie, with smoldering eyes. Did he think that move might be made on me?

"You're not a police officer," I said. "Should you be carrying a concealed weapon?"

"I got a permit last year. Madeline's had one for a long time. Don't worry, the cops know about it." He looked at me strangely. "I did get stopped by a detective on my way down here, though. He says he wants to talk to you. His name's Washington."

I said, "The detective doesn't want to talk to me. He wants to arrest me. I guess Petie's ramblings convinced him I'm guilty of something. I've already accused him once of detaining me without cause, and he doesn't like being wrong."

I almost chuckled at the dilemma. Should I go on risking my life by staying in a clubhouse that had been commandeered by an armed man? Or should I jeopardize my freedom by stepping out and confronting Washington? No contest. I would stay.

"Madeline's sure put a load of responsibility on you," I continued, eyeing the bulge on the left side of Tommy's coat.

"Yeah, she tends to do that with all her employees."

"So you and she are both confident you can take out Petie if necessary, and without injuring anyone else?" I asked.

Tommy eyed Petie like hated quarry, but he stumbled on his response. "Normally I could do it, no sweat." He flexed his right hand. "But I'm still not up to snuff since my injury."

"Why didn't you mention that to Madeline?"

Ignoring my question, he said, "You might have a better chance with this weapon than I would. You're not a bad shot at all."

I looked at him, dumbfounded. Then I gasped, "Thanks a lot. You've picked one hell of a moment to compliment me. You taught me to shoot, so I guess you should know how good I am. But you also know that I haven't practiced for months."

Truthfully, I was ready to faint at his suggestion. How could I contemplate shooting a man I had been intimate with, even if the relationship turned out to be fleeting and unsatisfactory? It wasn't in me, I thought.

And then to my astonishment, I pictured myself doing it. I felt an impulse to blast Petie Jansen out of my life, once and for all. I had indulged his craziness all this time because it added color to my existence. Now he was spoiling the sweet part of that memory by revealing himself before the world as a cauldron of jealousy and hatred.

Only where was the anger that would enable me to squeeze the trigger? Had I neutralized it by making him the hero of my screenplay?

Before I could complete the thought, Jessie called me again on my cell phone. When I answered, she burst into tears. "What should I do now? I calmed Manny down once, but Jansen is baiting him again."

"Get back on the phone and talk to him."

I took a deep breath. What else could I say to reassure her? "Listen," I whispered. "There's a plan to take Petie down if he makes any threatening moves—not that I think he will." I noted that Petie's gun remained on the podium in front of him, and he was gesticulating more like a politician than a madman.

"Who's planning to take him down?" Jessie laughed bitterly. "You?"

"I could do it," I said.

She contemplated that for several moments. Then she said, "I don't believe you could."

"If he starts threatening somebody—" I paused and listened to him. "But he isn't. In fact, I'm not sure he isn't just having a good laugh on all of us."

"I'm not amused," said Jessie. "I don't hear you laughing, either."

But I preferred to believe the humor theory. I sent a tentative smile in Petie's direction.

This caught his eye. "Who're you talking to, Miranda?"

His sudden attention sent a shock through my system—a miraculously calming sensation. "I'm talking to my sister. I'm telling her you're really a good guy."

"Lucky for us," Jessie put in, "he's dumb enough to think we believe that."

The sudden ring of Tommy's phone heightened the moment. As Tommy answered it, Petie's grin contorted into a grimace. "That'll be the boss lady, barking out instructions on what to do about me. And he'll snap to her orders, just like I used to."

Petie's shifting moods were beginning to alarm me. He'd licked his lips while talking about Madeline, as if entertaining lustful thoughts. Then he added pleadingly, "I really am a good guy, like you said. Seriously I am. But I'm confused as shit, plus I got all these anger issues. Somebody's gotta help me."

I knew then that Jessie had one thing right. The residual affection I felt for this wreck of a man wouldn't allow me to act. But someone might have to.

Wilson Boyd glanced back at me, as if I were appointed to decide. I discreetly motioned toward the bulge in Tommy's suit and then toward Wilson. The first baseman nodded and edged toward us.

Despite our subtlety, Petie noticed that something was going on. "Is my best friend plotting against me?" he asked in a hurt tone.

Wilson spun around and returned Petie's intense gaze. "Don't take it personal, Pete. It's just that this hostage business is starting to get to me."

"Who said anything about hostages?" exclaimed Petie. "You're free to leave whenever you want, dude."

At this the two men started bantering over the meaning of freedom in this situation. Jessie screamed in my ear, "Did you hear that? Boyd's free to leave. What does that tell you?"

"Petie's lying," I said.

"Randi, why should I trust your judgment? You made friends with that pair on the shooting range. You used to date one of the creeps. I think you've always secretly admired what they represent—the ultimate warrior who thinks his gun is his cock."

"Enough with your psychoanalyzing me. You need to get back on the phone with your husband."

Manny's manager and teammates were still cajoling him to turn the other cheek. If they failed, I had no doubt Manny would charge the podium, and that would be tantamount to committing suicide.

"Why should I talk Manny down," asked Jessie in a defiant tone, "when he may need to defend himself? Who knows how many enemies he has in that clubhouse?"

"We're all here to help him," I said.

"Oh yeah? Then just tell me who's gonna stop Jansen if it comes to that. We both know it isn't you."

"Wilson Boyd's the logical person to do it."

"Are you crazy? He's the enemy. I just know it."

I was beginning to think I was smarter than Jessie. What a time for such a revelation to break through my lifelong fog, like the primordial sun warming the earth. Nothing in my upbringing had prepared me for it. Mom and Dad wouldn't have believed it. But this crisis had exposed Jessie's judgment as fatally flawed.

Certain I was right, I pointed more emphatically toward the bulge in Tommy's coat and then toward Wilson. Both men nodded and waited for the right moment. When Petie turned in the other direction to resume sparring with Manny, the exchange was made. I told Jessie that Boyd was now armed and heard her blast me as a traitor.

"Would you please cut that crap and get back on the phone with Manny?" I ordered. "I'm trying to keep him alive, and you're not helping."

But Jessie continued her diatribe, and I took the phone away from my ear. Everyone in the room was listening, transfixed, to the dialogue between Petie and Manny.

"I don't get why you can't just admit you're a thief," Petie was saying. "You came to my country and took everything—the best job, the biggest contract, the sexiest babe. Why couldn't you stick with your Cuban wife? Brown sugar's not hot enough for you?"

"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about," shot back Manny. "So I'd thank you to shut up about my personal life."

"Jeez, you have a hissy fit every time I bring up your wife. I'm just saying she's part of the total package, the American dream you're living. You got it all, dude, and I been left with squat."

Manny reiterated that Petie didn't know anything about him, and Petie professed surprise. What could possibly be lacking in Manny's life?

"I was kidnapped, you stupid bastard. You got any idea what I went through?"

"What was so god-awful about it?" asked Petie. "So the Cubans paraded you around on TV and humiliated you for a little bit. So what? You're their—whaddaya call it—their prodigal son. They just wanted you to play a little ball for them. And the first wife wanted to see her kid. After they sprung you, you went on to the fat contract with the Keys, and now everything's hunky-dory. If anything, you oughtta be thanking them."

"Yeah right. I'm sure gonna thank them for sending some woman to trap me in an elevator, terrorize me at gunpoint, tie me up, drug me, and transport me back to the hellhole I escaped when I was a kid. Then for good measure, they extort two ballgames out of me and force me to turn my son over to his abusive mother. Yeah, and I'll really dig living the rest of my life always watching my back for fear I'll get on their wrong side again."

"Christ, stop whining," said Petie. "You landed on your feet, at least compared to me. Look at this damned unusable leg." He lifted it sideways in demonstration, wincing with the effort.

"I won't give up until I've exposed everybody who's responsible for my kidnapping," said Manny in cold, measured words. "Starting with you, Jansen. I don't care what it costs me. You're the one who let that woman into the tunnel."

"So what if I did? I was just a pawn, and she was just an easy lay. Don't you get it? The kidnapping was a big money deal and a big political deal, and you and I was used. Why don't you go after the big boys who made out like bandits from it? See if you can get your owner and my owner indicted. And while you're at it, try getting the president impeached."

"Thanks for the advice, but I'm starting with you."

"What you think you're gonna do about me?" Petie laid his hand on the gun. "I'm armed, remember?"

"I don't think you wanna use that gun." Manny strained toward the podium again, barely held back by Rivera. "I think you and I should step outside and have it out man to man. Just like Boyd said before."

Murmurs of agreement arose all around, while I spoke to Jessie again. "For God's sake, try to talk to Manny. Tell him not to get any closer. Petie doesn't want to harm him, but he might."

"No, you're wrong." Jessie's voice was shrill. "Jansen has always mocked Manny's peacemaking reputation. In fact, he hates him for it. If Manny looks like he's trying to appease Jansen, that'll set the bastard off for sure."

I tried to persuade Jessie that Petie's dialogue with Manny was an effort not to hurt him. Further, it looked to me like Petie was getting tired of the standoff. He was wiping the sweat off his face every few minutes, rubbing his forehead as if it ached. When he had had enough, I was sure he would walk away. But Jessie wasn't listening to me.

"Looks like you won't do anything to save your husband from himself. So I may have to do it." I snapped the phone shut, cutting Jessie off for good, and started working up the nerve to shout my advice to Manny across the room. If he tried to rush the podium again, I would scream, "Stay put."

But I never got the chance, because Petie had become distracted by the TV monitor. I was standing almost directly under it, so I couldn't see what he was looking at. But I could hear a woman's decisive voice in place of the nervous, whispering commentators who had been covering the crisis.

"Attention, everybody," Petie announced. "The boss lady knows what she's gonna do. She's about to tell us all."

"Everything is under control, or will be shortly," Madeline Carter was assuring a national audience. "I can send in the police if needed. Alternatively, I've deployed personnel inside the clubhouse who can respond if the gunman makes any quick moves. But I believe Jansen will give up before any of that becomes necessary. He's a valued member of the Washington Filibusters, and I know he's not a bad person. But I also know he's been under a terrible strain lately. That's the only explanation I can think of for his baffling accusations against me. If he surrenders peaceably, I'm determined to do all I can to ensure that he gets the help he obviously needs."

Asked how much longer she would wait, she replied, "No more than fifteen minutes."

Petie pointed to the television and laughed without humor. "That lady is as full of crap as any windbag politician. She ain't about to help me. What she'd really get off on is to see me dead. She's bringing the heavy artillery against me to make sure of it. In fifteen minutes."

"Maybe she's bluffing, Petie," exclaimed Bob Erickson. "Why don't you offer to negotiate with her? That's the way out of this. And it's something the Carters know how to do."

"Won't work, Bob. Mad's dad is the negotiator in the family. She's a woman of action, herself. Fact is, I know too much about her, and I could start spilling any second. Wouldn't y'all like that?"

No one responded. "Better yet," continued Petie, "why don't I just shut her up?"

Petie snatched the gun from the podium, raised it, and fired. The television monitor exploded overhead and came unhinged from the wall. Tommy flung himself on top of me, forcing me to the ground. He remained sprawled in that position, stunned as flying glass and debris fell on him. A large piece of the television landed on his head.

"Tommy!" I screamed. Had he been killed? How could I bear it?

"Idiot!" yelled Wilson. He drew the semiautomatic and charged.

Petie froze, still pointing his gun toward the place where the TV monitor had been, a silly grin on his face.

Wilson shot his best friend in the chest. The sound of the gunfire deafened me for several moments, and I couldn't hear the pandemonium all around me. But I saw Petie fall back against the podium, knock aside the microphone, and drop his gun. As he went down, Wilson succumbed to heavy, tearless sobs.

* * * * *

### Epilogue

When Petie Jansen tumbled from the podium, he dragged the Smith administration down with him. No one predicted such an outcome on that stunning April day, or even for several months afterward. History took its time unfolding, and many secondary dramas played out first—including mine.

I didn't expect that the events of Opening Day would bring me acclaim. Nor did I think I wanted it. I thanked God I hadn't been the one who'd shot Petie. I wouldn't have to spend countless hours justifying the act to the police or in court. I could be discreet about my prior relationship with him. All I had done was select the shooter. Anybody could see I had made the only rational choice.

After the shooting, President Jeremiah Smith's reputation with his conservative base seemed unassailable—at first. Throughout his political career he had managed to espouse family values in spite of his own turbulent personal life. Even during his presidential campaign, when an inconveniently timed divorce and vague acknowledgments of adultery might have done him in, these flaws had been largely overlooked because of his tough stands on gay marriage, abortion, and gun control.

That was why I was sure Manny's kidnapping would never be pinned on Smith. He would get a free pass for any behind-the-scenes maneuvers designed to spark an invasion of godless Cuba, since "his heart was in the right place." Besides, no one would testify to hearing any such discussions in the Oval Office.

It felt miraculous to me that there were no fatalities on Opening Day. When Petie Jansen emerged from surgery, his first coherent words were, "Shit, I can't even commit suicide right."

He went on to mutter other remarks that caught the attention of investigators. He believed he had been offered a job coaching baseball in Cuba, but if that were the only alternative open to him, he proclaimed, it might be a fate worse than death. As he recovered, he grew reconciled to the fact that whoever had plotted to rub him out had failed. And now he felt that he might as well live, since he still had important beans to spill.

After a bout of temporary paralysis cleared up, Petie told the doctors he felt "good to go" and that he would be playing baseball again no later than next spring. They had to tell him he had done further damage to his leg during his clubhouse rampage. Again Petie threatened suicide, raving that he would expose numerous bad people before he offed himself. This earned him some time in a psychiatric ward.

Madeline Carter took to the national airwaves again to reiterate her opinion that Petie Jansen was a talented but troubled young man who needed help rather than punishment. She declined to comment on a report that the bottle of painkillers found in Petie's possession had been traced to her.

The news media created heroes as well as train wrecks from the turmoil. One of the former was Hoss, who had been called upon to babysit Bobby while the events unfolded. We learned that Guadalupe had ordered her bodyguard to return to the owner's suite, retrieve Bobby from Hoss, and bring him to her. When Hoss refused to release the child, Guadalupe spoke to him directly via her bodyguard's cell phone, threatening to have him fired or worse. Hoss stood his ground, and Guadalupe was forced to flee empty-handed, having failed to re-kidnap either her ex-husband or her son. She holed up at the embassy under diplomatic protection, claiming a huge misunderstanding.

This should have triggered a major international incident. Who could doubt now that the Cuban embassy was a criminal enterprise operating with impunity in the United States? It had apparently produced the original gunwoman, Maria, and then professed ignorance of her whereabouts and identity. For all I knew, the woman named Marta, whom I had lunched with on Opening Day, was the same person. Nevertheless, Guadalupe and Alfonso Junior were allowed to leave the United States a week later, in the dead of night, to return to Cuba.

•

Jessie was hospitalized for several days after the incident as a precaution after the strain she had undergone. As soon as she and the unborn baby received a clean bill of health, she was interviewed on a network news program and proclaimed that all was well. Even when prodded, she no longer accused everybody in sight of Manny's kidnapping. She told me in private that she had come to regard Wilson Boyd and Petie Jansen as nothing more than a pair of overgrown cowboys. She doubted they were capable of conceiving and executing a simple game plan, much less a far-reaching plot. In addition, she was understandably reluctant to pick apart Javy Castilla's motives now that he signed her husband's hefty paychecks.

While Jessie calmed the waters, the media noticed Tommy's recovery. He had suffered a bad concussion and deep cuts when the TV monitor had fallen on his head. Several days of headaches had ensued, and a few stitches, but no permanent damage. The public embraced a guy who would sacrifice his body to save his wife from injury.

I thought that would be the end of it, but I underestimated the hunger of the American public for romantic heroines. After Jessie's rather pedestrian interview, local news outlets turned to me. Who was this mystery woman who had spent months on the periphery of events, only to step into the middle of the fray at their climax?

I consented to a brief television interview with talk show hostess Kristen Borg, my acquaintance from Opening Day. "Talk about how the events in the Keys clubhouse have affected your marriage," ordered the perky Kentuckian, whose intense blue eyes and accent reminded me of the ballplayer we had both known a little too well.

"Tommy and I realize we were lucky to emerge intact from a dangerous situation," I said. "Our relationship has gotten stronger as a result."

"You were playing quite a high-risk game when you baited Petie Jansen." Kristen's tone sharpened. "What made you do that?"

"I took a chance that he might spill something relevant about my brother-in-law's kidnapping."

"Of course, you weren't the only one taking chances that day," the interviewer observed. "Your husband and Madeline Carter concocted quite a scheme, sneaking in that gun."

"It worked," I said.

"Did you maybe think of shooting Petie yourself?" Kristen laughed at her own question, as the live audience tittered.

"Actually, I did," I said. The interviewer reeled as if in shock, and the audience went silent.

Recovering quickly, Kristen said, "Well, honey, you had your chance."

"I didn't want to be the one to hurt Petie. He was a friend—a close friend at one time."

Sounding hopeful, Kristen asked, "And you're saying both you and Tommy are okay with everything that went down?"

"We survived it." Taking a deep breath, I surrendered to the feel-good story line. "It's true Tommy and I have had our share of difficulties. We've both made mistakes, some of them really big ones. But lately we've rediscovered each other as—soul mates, I guess you could say." This struck the right note and got tumultuous applause.

Kristen asked if there were any chance I would soon follow my sister's example and start a family. I hemmed and hawed, alluding to past gynecological problems and my busy career.

The latter point was at least partially true; I had received overtures from the human resources office at the Department of Homeland Security and was scheduled to meet with the personnel officer to discuss my possible return to work. But Kristen seemed dissatisfied with my response, so I added that being Aunt Miranda to Jessie's stepson, Bobby, had brought me much joy and that I was looking forward to welcoming a niece. The audience ate this up, since it was general knowledge that Bobby had an absentee mother and needed all the "stepmothering" he could get.

It appeared my story might have some national potential, as representatives of Oprah and Jerry Springer contacted me. I put them off while I tried to decide how famous I wanted to be. I was still undecided when I answered the phone one afternoon and heard a well-known voice say, "Mrs. Stone? This is Oprah Winfrey. How are you today?"

"Oh my God," I said. Then, recovering, I said, "I'm fine. How are you?"

"I'm just terrific, thank you. I wanted to reiterate what my producer told you the other day. We think your story is exciting and inspiring, and we would love to have you on our show to talk about it."

"Well—that's so nice of you. I really am honored."

I was tempted to say yes on the spot, but something held me back. I said, "Would it be all right if I discussed it with my husband and got back to you?"

"That would be just fine." Oprah seemed delighted with this display of marital togetherness. "Just let my producer know within the next few days, okay? And say hello to that gallant husband of yours."

•

"Wilson the Conqueror" became something of a folk hero, and his "legend" added to mine.

Soon after the police had decided not to charge Boyd in the clubhouse shooting, he phoned both Jessie and me to make sure we were okay. Jessie was polite but wary, still nursing age-old resentments over the player's rivalry with Manny.

I was startled but intrigued when Wilson told me that his wife was a little jealous of me. "Don't get me wrong—Rosie and I are totally devoted to each other. But the way I stepped in between you and Jansen at one point, it looked to her like I was rescuing a damsel in distress."

Despite Jessie's coolness, Wilson and Manny struck up a friendship that was no longer forced as it had been during their joint interview on Opening Day. Manny credited his rival with saving his life. In mid-May, when the Busters played a series against the Keys in Miami and an off day was available, Manny allowed Wilson to interview him for a special, live edition of his outdoor television program. Jessie and I watched it in her bedroom.

That joint appearance turned out almost as "feel good" as my interview with Kristen Borg. Manny declined to learn how to kill animals, but he agreed to let Wilson teach him some fundamentals about the safe handling of firearms.

During a pause in the lesson, they alluded to the clubhouse crisis and how it had changed them. Manny revealed that after much resistance, he had submitted to counseling for his lingering PTSS. Wilson apologized for having made fun of that condition on a previous show.

Then Boyd jeopardized his tough-guy image by speculating that maybe Manny's doctor could help him, too. "It turns out that being good at shooting deer don't exactly prepare you to shoot down your best friend. I mean, sure Petie was acting wacko, and I had to do what I did. But I know he's a good guy at heart."

Later in the show, he startled me by remarking, "Your sister-in-law, Miranda, actually saved the situation. When things was getting out of control, she just coolly pointed to me, and I knew what I had to do."

"Miranda was a real heroine," agreed Manny. That gave me goose bumps.

•

Later that day, Manny called to tell us that his dialogue with Wilson had continued after the cameras were off. Boyd had patted Manny on the back and said, "You surprised me today, amigo. You proved you can be almost as good a shooter as me. Maybe one of these days you'd like to tag along when I visit the Belton League headquarters near Roanoke. Best shooting range in the country. I'll introduce you to the son of the great man himself, Tex Belton Junior."

"That's in southwest Virginia, right?" asked Manny. "I've never seen the place. But I'm pretty sure I've been there—just once."

It had taken several moments for Wilson to grasp the import of that remark. Then he'd blurted, "Jesus Christ, are you sure?"

A few days later, Wilson taped a video and had a link to it put on the Belton League Web site. Given his stature in the group, it was a fair assumption that every member heard his message.

"I got something to say to my fellow hunters, fishermen, and shooters throughout the Tex Belton network. You are all my brothers and sisters and will be forever. But listen to me. I'm tired of being in the dark about the crime that was committed against a good buddy and former teammate of mine. It not only took away his freedom but also led to what could've been a tragic situation for both of us, and for many others, several months later. I want y'all to know—I can't state it more plain—that Manny is my brother, too. And it's time to get what happened to him out in the open.

"Probably a lot of you will blow this off, saying nothing bad really happened. Manny was returned to his family, and some good things came out of the whole deal. But that really ain't right, guys, 'cause a crime was perpetrated. Some Cuban woman, who's still hiding out, somehow fooled ballpark security, sneaked a gun in, and took him someplace where he didn't wanna be. And that's against every rule we live by.

"From day one, there's been whispers and innuendos that the Belton League might've helped the Cubans pull it off. I haven't believed it up to now. I still don't wanna believe it. But if anyone in our group has any knowledge of who that woman was, how she got armed, and how she got away, I say it's time to step forward and tell the FBI or the cops what you know, even if it exposes some friend of yours. We've never been in the kidnapping business before, and we have no business helping America's enemies. Come clean right now, so the rest of us can show the decal of the Tex Belton League proudly again."

•

Three days after the message went up, a tape recording arrived anonymously at FBI headquarters in Washington and was leaked simultaneously to the Internet. We all had the opportunity to hear a deal being struck between a woman who sounded Hispanic and a man with a southern Virginia accent.

She spoke slowly and carefully. "My people tell me that your group can arrange transportation south for myself and three comrades."

"Your people are spot on. For the right price, sweetheart, we'll help pretty much anyone escape the claws of the U.S. government."

After a pause, the man continued, "Not that money's the be-all and end-all, y'know. What I'd really like is to prove your kind of people and my kind can get along."

The woman evidently agreed. An intimate interlude, with audible giggles and sighs of pleasure, slowed down the business transaction. Still, the man managed to describe the trip his consort and her "comrades" would take through the Tex Belton network. The route traversed several Southern states, with a quick stopover in Roanoke, and ended in south Florida. From there her journey would continue by sea, in the company of her "own people." The man vouched for the security of the route, as it had worked like a dream on other occasions.

We assumed that the woman was Petie Jansen's Maria and that she had sought help to map out Manny's transit to Cuba as well as her own escape. Shortly after the tape was revealed, Manny and Wilson were summoned to FBI headquarters to listen to an enhanced recording of the voices. Manny was "ninety-five percent sure" that the woman was the one who had accosted him in the elevator the previous October. Wilson had the more painful task of identifying his friend, Tex Belton Junior himself, as the amorous man. Jessie was asked to listen, as well, to assist the FBI in linking the woman to the Cuban embassy. The agents theorized that she was one of the sources Jessie had used while researching her article about Manny's first trip to Cuba.

That experience was enough to send Jessie back to bed in a temporary tailspin. When I tried to calm her, she exclaimed, "Don't you understand? I may have shared intimate personal details with Manny's future kidnapper. What does that make me?"

"A little too trusting, maybe," I offered.

"It makes me partly responsible for what happened. After all the months I've spent blaming others—even you."

I accepted this outburst as a form of apology. "Let it go, Jess," I said. "I understand what you were going through."

Belton Junior was arrested in his Roanoke office. Soon his League was staggering under the weight of a thorough investigation. Another son of Tex Belton Senior took over the organization and pledged full cooperation with the FBI, no matter how many members proved to be involved. This declaration roused the most staunchly anti-government voices in the group. They accused the younger Belton of bugging the office and holding back the resulting tape until the time was ripe to destroy his brother. The FBI anticipated further arrests, and the League showed signs of imploding from the pressure. Jessie and I joked that those macho men had invented their own version of a catfight.

Tex Belton Junior pleaded no contest to aiding and abetting the kidnapping. He admitted to accepting money from a Cuban woman to use the escape route that had been established for certain sympathetic fugitives—abortion clinic bombers, I guessed. He maintained that he had asked no questions about her mission, and he emphatically denied any prior knowledge of the kidnapping. Did he know where the money had come from? He said he didn't.

Jessie thought she knew. She was relieved that Belton Junior's case wouldn't be grinding through the courts when the baby was born. But as her early July due date approached, she contemplated uncertainties that might linger forever. Belton Junior, she declared, was small potatoes. If he turned out to be the only person charged, she wouldn't rest easily. She just knew that Javy Castilla had financed the plot. But at the same time, she knew, somehow, that this would never be proven. She and Manny would have to live with the suspicion that the man who had made his career had also perpetrated a monstrous crime against him. In a symbolic sense, Manny's imprisonment would continue.

•

Shortly after Belton Junior's arrest, Detective Washington caught up to me again, still fixated on my relationship with Petie Jansen. He and his new partner came to the house to question me about Petie's ramblings in the owner's suite on Opening Day. Washington seemed determined to prove that he was more than an "unwitting catalyst" in the kidnapping, and he thought Petie might have incriminated himself during his private conversation with me.

The detective's lack of chemistry with his new partner seemed to make him even more abrupt than before. His theory was that Petie had knowingly armed Maria after someone on Madeline Carter's security staff—if not Madeline herself—had armed him. If he could not nail Petie or Madeline, I thought, he might settle for Hoss.

When I told Washington I thought he was on the wrong track, the interrogation got personal. Washington eyed his partner, who was prompted to say, "Mrs. Stone, pardon me for prying into your personal life. But is it possible you're protecting Petie Jansen because—you're in love with him?"

"I'm not in love with him," I protested. "I'm happily married. He's just a—an old friend."

"A damned good friend," said Washington.

I considered the question as honestly as I could. Was I holding back anything relevant, and if so, why? I didn't love Petie, but I was still hoping to prop him up with my screenplay. Again the title, _I Was a Militia Madam_ , flashed through my head in neon lights.

"You might need to take your probe higher," I blurted. When Washington raised his brows at me, I added, "You should know, detective, that I wasn't confined to the owner's suite on Opening Day. I was invited upstairs to the presidential suite, where I witnessed quite a catfight."

I described as much as I could remember of the discussion that had transpired between Madeline and Deirdre, with Guadalupe popping in to mix things up further. The women had sparred as if I weren't there, almost accusing one another of knowing a little too much about the kidnapping.

"Interesting," said Washington. He tried to look skeptical, but I could tell he was intrigued—although not quite ready to reset his sights.

"Based on what you heard, Mrs. Stone, which of those two ladies—Madeline Carter and Deirdre Smith Gordon—do you think was telling the truth?"

"I can't say I trust either of them. But I was even more startled by something the security guard, Hoss, muttered to me under his breath."

"You called him Hoss?" Washington glared at me as his partner stifled a giggle. "Is that his real name?"

"I have no idea," I said. "What's the difference, as long as I heard what the man said? The gist of it was that regular ballpark security is superseded whenever Mrs. Gordon's special detail is around. At first I thought he was talking about that day—Opening Day. Then I realized what he really meant."

"Which was?" demanded Washington.

"That he and his colleagues lost control of the premises the day of the kidnapping. That if anyone allowed Manny's assailant to get in, it was the presidential detail."

Washington kept frowning, rather than admitting I had planted a new theory in his head. Something told me Hoss was in for the next grilling.

•

After a while, it looked like things were settling down. I begged out of the star life and went back to my job in June. My employers admitted that they needed me, and Tommy and I had mortgage payments to make. My two-month absence from the office was treated as voluntary leave without pay. There would be no suspension on my record.

I breathed easier, because I rarely had to deal with two former obstacles to my mental health, Mr. Perkins and the secretary, Jean. Both had been detailed to the office of the department's assistant secretary. At first I was annoyed to see them essentially "kicked upstairs" for mucking up things in the budget office, but I changed my mind when I had a chance to visit the front office for a budget briefing.

There, I found myself seated next to Mr. Perkins, who barely said hello to me and was mostly silent during the meeting. It was Jean's job to bring in coffee. When she handed me my cup, I said, "Thanks so much, Jean. Could I have a little cream, too?" She grunted assent and scowled as she returned to the outer office for the cream container.

I realized that both of my enemies had been placed in positions with close supervision and no power. I gave the assistant secretary the information he needed and answered a few questions.

"I'm very grateful for your help, Miranda," he summed up, "and glad you're back." With a pointed glance at Perkins, he added, "We don't want to try to get along without you again."

The big boss seemed to know that little work had been done while I was away. I had had to plunge in, with Caroline's devoted help, and clean up the mess. I considered my efforts part of the fight against domestic terrorism, something that had ensnared my own family. The department had not classified Manny's kidnapping as a terrorist act under its jurisdiction, but I hoped to change some minds about that.

•

On the Thursday evening after I had returned to work, my home phone rang while I was in the kitchen and Tommy was in his office. I got to it first.

"This is Johnson Carter," announced a brisk but friendly voice. "Is this Miranda?"

"Yes, it is," I said, astounded. "Would you like to speak to—"

"No, not necessary," he interrupted. "I want to invite you and Thomas to be my guests for dinner tomorrow night in my private suite at the ballpark. We'll watch what should be an entertaining game and have a good chat."

"Oh, that sounds—"

"It'll be my way of thanking you both for your courageous actions on Opening Day."

"That's very kind of you," I exclaimed. "I'm sure my husband would also—"

"I'll send a car to your house around five. The driver will have your special passes, and he'll escort you to my suite. I look forward to seeing you no later than six."

"Me too," I barely had time to say before he rang off.

I called Jessie with the news before I told Tommy.

"I must say I'm impressed," she responded. "It's hard to believe that after all I've been through, I still haven't had that sit-down meeting with Carter that I've been requesting for ages. And now you're—"

"I'll just have to do it in your place," I said. So as not to sound smug, I added, "Don't forget, you and Manny have been invited to the White House. That's more than Tommy and I can say."

"True. But we still haven't been there." Jessie's voice sounded plaintive.

•

This trip turned out to be a familiar yet totally different experience at the ballpark. Everything went smoothly, starting with my early exit from the office, which drew only a casual nod from my new director. The driver got us to our destination in good time, bypassing all hassles at the will-call window. Hoss smiled at Tommy and me as he motioned us into the suite. The team owner, several of his co-investors, the mayor, and two city councilmen rose from their seats to greet us.

"Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Stone," announced Johnson Carter. "Familiar faces to you all, I believe."

We shook hands with everyone before we took our seats at Carter's table. "I want to thank you personally," the mayor said, clasping my hand in both of his, "for helping to avert what could have been a major tragedy for our city."

We had a fun, relaxed evening. The dinner of barbequed spareribs, scalloped potatoes, and mixed vegetables was accompanied by free-flowing red and white wine. A combative but entertaining political debate sprung up between the liberal-leaning mayor and councilmen and the decidedly conservative Carter. But nothing could bring down Carter's mood as he watched his Filibusters pound the world champion New York Broadways, nine to one, in an interleague contest.

I said little after the introductions, but sat back and listened to the conversations ebbing and flowing all around me. Mr. Carter and Tommy alluded to several business deals that Carter Industries had pending with Tommy's firm. Not long ago, my husband had been secretive about his work while in my presence. Tonight I was hearing many tantalizing tidbits.

When Madeline's name came up, my heart lurched. "I would like you to go on advising my daughter when she asks for it," Mr. Carter told Tommy. "I believe you're a stabilizing influence on her."

I breathed a sigh of relief. Somehow, the prospect of Tommy continuing the relationship as a "stabilizer" didn't threaten me.

•

Jessie called on Saturday morning to ask how the evening had gone. I started to describe it at length, but she cut me off. "Did Carter say anything revealing?"

I reflected. "Not really. The funny thing is, he introduced me to everyone with great fanfare. And after that, he barely spoke to me. He talked business with Tommy and politics with the politicians. When he talked baseball, he addressed the whole room."

"Didn't you feel insulted?" asked Jessie.

"Not at all. In fact, I felt honored."

"I don't get it," said Jessie. "What was the point of your being there? What did Carter want?"

I sighed. I wasn't sure I could make Jessie understand. "To me, Carter looked sorry."

"What do you mean, he looked sorry?" demanded Jessie.

"What can I tell you? It was the way he looked at me. His body language, his gestures. What he said to Tommy, even if he didn't say it directly to me. What he said to the mayor about law and order in the city. I think he's sorry the kidnapping mess started on his turf. I think he's even a little ashamed of his daughter. But don't expect him to ever say any of this out loud. His honoring me last night is the only apology we'll get."

•

Jessie went into labor three weeks before her due date and gave birth to a healthy, six-pound girl, Juanita Miranda. Manny was named to the all-star team, and he went to the game in July with an aura of relief and joy around him. He and Wilson Boyd renewed their friendship at the hotel bar in Kansas City, where the game was held. They both competed respectably in the home run derby held the night before the game, making it into the second round. Manny finished ahead of Wilson, who vowed playful revenge. As the pennant races heated up later that summer, it appeared the Keys and Busters were on course to meet again in the playoffs.

These were hectic but happy times for Jessie, who was devoted entirely to nurturing her new family. She returned to her cramped Georgia Avenue apartment with Bobby and the baby, vowing that this fall she and Manny would find a permanent home. Mom and I were often on hand to help her. Sometimes when Bobby got whiny at the attention being paid to Juanita, I took him out for ice cream or for a walk in the nearby park, where the carousel never failed to fascinate him. My "auntie" skills were coming along.

In late August, Jessie went to Miami to spend some sorely needed time alone with Manny and to do some preliminary house hunting. I agreed to take Bobby for a week while Mom babysat Juanita. At first Tommy was worried at the prospect of child care. "What'll we do with him?" he asked me.

"He's a smart kid," I replied. "Why don't you introduce him to some of those computer games you've been playing lately in your office while you're pretending to work?"

Tommy chuckled to discover I had finally seen through his "all work and no play" pose. My suggestion worked with Bobby, as well. All week long, the two of them were ensconced in Tommy's office for hours every evening, and I had to pry them out for dinner. They became particularly engrossed in fantasy baseball, and as a result, Tommy acquired more knowledge of the sport than he ever had before.

When it was time for Bobby to leave, Tommy kissed him on the cheek and told him to come back any time. Afterward he turned to me. "You know, I've been thinking ... if a baby doesn't happen for us in the next few years, we could consider adopting an older child."

•

When Jessie and I had time to talk, we continued to speculate on recent events, more for sport than anything else. These subjects no longer roiled Jessie as they used to. She was busy with her new life and, frankly, too exhausted to "prove" any more theories. But one Saturday afternoon when I dropped by her apartment to bring her a carryout lunch, she finally said the words I needed to hear from her.

"You know," she said as she was clearing the dining room table so that we could sit down with our cheeseburgers and fries, "it hasn't escaped me how many people have praised your cool head during the hostage crisis. I just want to tell you, in case I haven't made it plain before, that I think you deserve every bit of the praise. You were braver than I knew you could be. Maybe even braver than I could have been."

Manny, whose Keys were in town for a three-game set, came in to say hello and grab some fries. He was on his way to the ballpark for an early pregame workout and was taking Bobby with him. On his way out, he planted a passionate, salty kiss on his wife's mouth and a brotherly peck on my cheek. He didn't seem to mind in the least that these days Jessie sported mostly sweat clothes, un-manicured fingernails, and a ponytail.

Once he and Bobby were gone, we took up the case again. I explained to Jessie how I had nudged Detective Washington on his own private quest toward a more exalted investigation—one that might lead to the White House, if he found a way to pursue it. He had returned yet again to question both Tommy and me about what we had observed during our dinner at the Palm Restaurant this past New Year's Eve. Tex Belton Junior's sudden appearance and his ease in plowing past Deirdre's security now seemed significant.

"But that's all you know, right?" said Jessie, rising from the table to pick up the wailing baby. "It's not like you overheard any of Belton's conversation with the Florida mafia."

"I didn't have to," I said. "I saw irrefutable evidence that a man now known to have aided and abetted the kidnapping is tight with the president's daughter, her husband, and their closest political allies. I thought at the time it was strange, but I was too preoccupied to pursue it. To tell the truth, I was mostly pissed at Tommy for refusing to take me on the Cuba trip."

"You didn't miss anything down there, believe me," Jessie said as she comforted Juanita. "It was hot and miserable, and the spicy food was inedible. We were surrounded by security thugs who looked like they might kill us at the slightest provocation. But the worst of it was being in close quarters with Guadalupe at the residence. It was all I could do to tolerate her sisterly overtures without spitting in her face."

"Thank God for her newborn twins," I observed. We had laughed when we heard the news that the worst mother on the planet had been doubly blessed. "With any luck, she'll be so harried she'll forget all about Bobby."

Jessie said, "She might as well. We'll never let her near him again, no matter what we agreed to before. Let her try to do something about it. She'll be risking arrest if she sets foot on U.S. soil."

I refrained from reminding Jessie that Guadalupe had a history of wreaking havoc through her surrogates in this country. The thought that she might try it again was too much. Instead, I predicted, "I don't think we'll have to put up with any more of her televised speeches, either. Even the most obscure cable channel won't give her airtime now, no matter how important she thinks she is. Without a hostage, she has no bargaining power."

"By the way," said Jessie, putting the baby down, "Deirdre recently got back in touch. Can you believe she's still pushing that White House baby shower?"

"Sure I can believe it. She has every reason to cultivate you."

"Yeah, I guess so. She must feel pretty confident that there are no smoking guns at the White House. Not that I'd be likely to come across one at a baby shower held in the East Wing."

"So where does all that leave us?" I summarized: "We have a few solid facts about the kidnapping, and quite a few suspicions. We can be sure that Guadalupe Ramirez conceived the plot from Havana, together with Alfonso Junior and Senior. She ordered her embassy contacts in Washington to penetrate the ballpark, using Petie Jansen as an apparent unwitting catalyst. We know that Tex Belton Junior was paid a considerable sum to put his network at the Cubans' disposal to assist in their getaway. We also have reason to believe that two baseball owners, Carter and Castilla, had business and personal incentives for wanting the kidnapping to happen. They probably kept their hands off the details, but both had more than a passing acquaintance with Belton Junior.

"And finally," I concluded, "it has to be noted that both Carter and Castilla have strong ties to President Smith."

"That's where things get murky," said Jessie. "At the point where the women get involved. Carter's strongest connection to Smith right now is through his daughter, Madeline. And Castilla's closest ally is Deirdre Smith. Even so, we don't have any proof against either Madeline or Deirdre."

"But what do we know about the president?" I asked. "He had a motive to help his little girl and her husband. Bulking up the Florida Keys with new Cuban blood was a great result for Mr. and Mrs. Gordon. It's bringing benefits to the congressman's district and maybe, in time, to the entire Florida economy. Can we blame Smith for being a good daddy?"

"And can we blame Madeline Carter for trying to be a good wife?" rejoined Jessie. "I'll bet she got involved in the plot as a quid pro quo for the Smiths' support of Donald's Senate campaign."

"We may never be able to prove this part of it," I said. Jessie agreed, but she added that it might not be necessary. She believed that certain egos, especially female ones, could not be discreet to save their necks.

"You know as well as I do that Madeline and Deirdre are combustible. Every time they cozy up to one another for pragmatic reasons, the snarkiness and jealousy ignite. I wonder what would happen if they were thrown together in close quarters at some hoity-toity affair—like a White House baby shower. I predict it would take them about ten minutes to get down and dirty."

•

The baby shower kept being postponed, but Jessie's prediction came true in other ways. The Smiths failed to endorse Don Bushnell for the Republican nomination in the upcoming Virginia Senate primary, and one of his opponents overtook him in the polls. When the reasons for the Smith administration's disaffection were leaked, it did seem possible that Deirdre had it in for Madeline. She had reportedly criticized the Carters' overly aggressive handling of the hostage crisis on Opening Day, suggesting that it had almost sparked a massacre. Jessie and I agreed that it might take a while, but Madeline would pay Deirdre back for the endorsement snubeven if she had to risk her own reputation in the process.

Jessie had become a stay-at-home mom on the Deirdre model, but she insisted it was temporary; Mrs. Florida Congressman was the last person she wanted to emulate. Still, she seemed preoccupied with family issues, such as the idea of taking Juanita to the ballpark during a late-season Keys-Busters series in Washington. Now that the teams were in another tight pennant race, she believed that every spark of inspiration she could provide to Manny from the stands might make a difference. Besides, the baby was adorable, and what better way to demonstrate to the world that everything had turned out fine?

But Mom said Jessie shouldn't consider such an outing until Juanita was at least a year old. Jessie countered that many of her acquaintances among both the Keys and Busters wives brought their infants to the games. I suggested a compromise: "Wait until the championship series."

•

In early September, Don Bushnell lost his primary election. At the end of the month, the Busters finished a close second to the Keys in the Eastern Division, and both teams were in the playoffs. I was sitting with Jessie in the cluttered room she called an office, helping her come up with ideas for an article. It was to be her first published piece in over a year. Mom had taken Bobby and Juanita for the day to allow their harried mommy to get some work done.

Jessie sat before the computer, analyzing several surprising personnel moves made by team owners Carter and Castilla over the past few months. At the end-of-July trading deadline, Ron Olgesby, the starting pitcher whom the Busters had acquired from the Keys last winter via free agency, had been sent back to his old team. He had struggled in a Busters uniform, but after the trade he'd returned to form. He'd also spouted off, saying he would relish another opportunity to shut down the Busters in the championship series, as he had done last year. Meanwhile, the Busters shored up their tired bullpen by acquiring two strong relievers named Batista and Gomez.

In August, Busters third baseman Joe Plummer, mired in a hitting slump, had been put on waivers. He was picked up by the Keys to fill a defensive need. To replace him, the Busters called up a talented prospect named Gonzalez. They had been trying for months to trade him, along with other minor leaguers, for an established player. But the kid made a splash in his major league debut, and the Busters kept him.

At the start of the year, no one could have predicted that the Busters' tough closer, Randy Oakes, would be demoted to a setup role in the bullpen. But as the season wore on, the manager, Carter Junior, grew tired of Oakes's "high-wire act." While Oakes saved four out of five chances on average, none of them were easy. With increasing frequency, Carter Junior brought in Batista or Gomez to finish games. And so the pitcher once considered to be the quintessential Buster, with his off-field militia-style camouflage outfits and his stony stare, grumbled about the demotion and declared his intention to move on as soon as possible if he didn't get his original job back.

"I'm trying to weave facts like these into a common theme," explained Jessie. "Considering the lengths Carter and Castilla went to and all they risked to acquire the kinds of teams they thought they wanted, it's pretty astounding. Now both have made moves that improved their teams on the field while sacrificing ethnic purity. Does that mean pragmatism has won out over racism?"

"You should also mention the Keys clubhouse on Opening Day," I said. "How about the way their manager ordered Guadalupe thrown out? That may have had dire consequences, but it was also a declaration of independence. The Keys refused to become a Cuban outpost."

I was about to expound further when my cell phone rang. "Hey, babe," drawled the scratchy voice on the other end of the line. "First off, I gotta thank you for not shooting me. I know you probably wanted to. But I don't think I coulda taken that from a chick."

"Oh, hi, Petie," I said. Jessie raised her eyebrows. "Don't mention it."

Petie said, "Second off, guess where I am right now."

"Are you out of the—um, psychiatric hospital?" I asked.

"Believe it or not, I'm spending quality time at a different hospital—Walter Reed. This here's a wing for soldiers with long-term injuries. My agent thought I should come here, and he was right—it's far out. Some of the guys I'm visiting are in really tough shape, but I show them my messed-up leg and tell them I'm a cripple, too. When they realize I can't play right now, they treat me like I'm one of them."

I passed these observations on to Jessie.

"Hey, is that the girl reporter you're talking to?" asked Petie. "She oughtta do an article about me, 'cause I'm thinking of starting another foundation to help out these soldiers. That'd be a great topic, right? Or else you could put it in your screenplay. What's up with that, anyway? Still working on it?"

I said, "I'm sure I'll get going on it if you start giving me good material again."

Petie alluded to the team of lawyers and doctors who were trying to get him out of trouble. "I told the cops everything I know. Christ, it wasn't my gun or my pills. I ratted out that Maria babe for the kidnapping; it ain't my fault she got away. I explained how Madeline set me up to go psychotic on Opening Day. Bitch was trying to get me killed 'cause I know too much about her. But it's like she's above the law. Most they'll ever probably get her for is prescription abuse."

"Your theory's a little bit paranoid, Petie." Not that I didn't believe it.

"But I still say Mad's a woman after my own heart—my militia madam. I know exactly what she had up her sleeve that day. We was both pissed that we didn't conquer Cuba when we had the chance. So she sent me in to do the next best thing—invade the Keys clubhouse."

"That's why she's not just your militia madam anymore," I said. "She's a national neo-con heroine."

Petie continued, "And now all these doctors keep debating about whether or not I'm bipolar. But shit, they're more confused than I am. Only I know what really went down. I still say I was just a—whaddaya call it again?"

"An unwitting catalyst," I supplied.

Petie rambled on about various ideas for rehabilitating himself. Wilson Boyd had invited him to appear on his hunting show when filming resumed in late October, assuming there were no legal impediments by then. Petie was determined to do it. "If your precious brother-in-law Manny can strut his stuff with my man Wilson, why can't I?"

"Won't it be a little awkward to appear on TV with the guy who nearly killed you?" I asked.

"Shit, if he'll let me, I'll give him a bear hug and a sloppy wet kiss in front of everybody. In my humble opinion, he saved my life by shooting me."

"You're gonna thank him publicly for shooting you?" I laughed.

"Sure, why not? I'll even thank Manny and his hot wife for not trying to get me put away for twenty years." I passed this on to Jessie, slightly edited.

Petie also had long-range plans. Since training was out for the foreseeable future, he said he might return to the University of Kentucky to finish his sociology degree. Crazy or not, he was set to become the greatest humanitarian that Appalachia had ever produced. He finished the call by passing on good wishes to Jessie and getting the same, grudgingly, in return.

I had barely gotten off the phone with Petie when Tommy called, breathless with excitement. "Randi, you're not gonna believe this. I've been in conference with Madeline Carter all morning. I'm on a break now."

"Why wouldn't I believe that?" I asked.

"I mean, you're not gonna believe what she just told me. She's got some serious dope on President Smith. Turns out she's been wearing a wire during her Oval Office meetings. I'm not sure yet whether she did all of this on her own. But at least two of the tapes are incriminating as hell. She's threatening to release them to her favorite political Web sites. I've been trying everything I can think of to talk her out of it."

I passed Tommy's news on to Jessie, who burst out laughing. "Nixon's back in the Oval Office, only this time wearing a skirt."

"Have you heard these tapes?" I asked Tommy. "How bad are they?"

"At the very least, bad enough to torpedo Smith's re-election chances."

"Anything about the kidnapping?"

"One of them seems to allude to the kidnapping. The other one is about sex. That's the one that would blow his base."

Tommy described what he had heard. Jessie and I agreed with his assessment. Smith had been caught on tape admitting to what sounded like an impeachable offense, but there was room for interpretation. The other recording, the sexy one with far less discernable dialogue, was bound to make more noise.

I asked Tommy why he thought Madeline would do this, even for the pleasure of embarrassing her rival, Deirdre. He thought that was only one of Madeline's objectives. She also seemed intent on throwing away her marriage to the loser, Don Bushnell. As a bonus, she would take down Smith, who sounded on tape as if he were trying to break up with her.

Her grievance with Smith was political, as well. She accused him of having a long-standing, clandestine relationship with Alfonso Ramirez, a dictator whom she still lusted to topple from power. Smith had had an opportunity and a motive to do it, but he had not acted. That led Madeline to conclude that his past tirades against "Little Castro" and his virtuous refusal to invite Ramirez to White House conferences with other Caribbean leaders had been cover-ups for many months of back-channel contacts.

"That's the smoking gun," Jessie and I exclaimed in tandem. But Tommy was more fixated on the sex tape. He described the breathless endearments, punctuated by grunts and groans of ecstasy. Madeline seemed to have cornered Smith behind his desk to perform her womanly arts on him. He was heard protesting that these quickies, enjoyable though they were, might lead to trouble. Besides, it wasn't right. She was a married woman, and he was a grandfather. She silenced him, evidently with a lip-lock.

"More Clinton than Nixon on that one," I commented after filling Jessie in.

"Smith's dumber than both of them put together," she replied.

"But Tommy, you know what Jessie and I really need to hear," I said. "What were their exact words about the kidnapping?"

Tommy thought the administration could try to spin Madeline's outburst on the subject, but it would be difficult. According to him, she had nearly yelled, "It's all clear to me now. You arranged the whole caper with that spic dictator. You and your daughter suckered me into letting his bitches into my ballpark."

Jessie and I opined that the minute this got out, the Smiths were goners. I said, "The president can't disappear fast enough for me. He scares me to death, mostly because I think his personal turmoil distracts him from the job."

I expanded on this idea, which had occurred to me many times at work. I believed my bosses at Homeland Security considered themselves de facto co-presidents, in the belief that the terrorists were gaining on us while Smith enjoyed the perks of his office a little too much.

"Could be," laughed Jessie. "All I can say, as a concerned citizen, is that I feel safer now that my conscientious sister is back on the job."

Tommy ended the conversation, saying he needed to get back to his meeting with Madeline. He still hoped to dissuade her from this destructive course. He was disconcerted by what he had learned, but he believed it might turn out that none of it was as bad as it sounded.

I said, "If you succeed, honey, you'll have saved a president you admire from himself. Personally, I'm not so sure he's worth it. But we can agree to disagree on that."

As I shut the phone, I felt a surge of pride in my husband, who had a gift for loyalty and had proven it more than once. Hadn't our marriage survived enough crises to test anybody to the limit?

Jessie and I each took a deep breath and returned to the task at hand, although it seemed less timely now. In the coming months, Jessie would resume her sports writing career while also pursuing a far more ambitious goal. Her self-proclaimed "true life's work" would be to expose, in all its macabre complexity, the female triumvirate that she believed had sparked her husband's kidnapping from deep behind the scenes.

I warned her that those targets would prove elusive, and I was right. Once it became general knowledge that the kidnapping was plotted at the highest levels of two governments, the machinations of Guadalupe, Madeline, and Deirdre indeed looked like a mere catfight.

That day, we didn't foresee that I would soon become an established writer myself. I decided to set aside my screenplay temporarily and plunge into the safer realm of fantasy fiction. I produced a fairy tale about a kingdom shattered by the kidnapping of a prince. The princess who loved him suffered a broken heart and pined away in the belief that he could have escaped, but that he chose to remain in a faraway land under the enchantment of an evil coven. After many years of preparation and training, an army composed of both sorcerers and soldiers invaded the enemy country, broke the spell, and rescued the prince.

Jessie helped me to find a reputable children's publisher, something I couldn't have done without her connections. I scored a modest success, although some critics found the happy ending somewhat tacked on. While Jessie praised my story, I noticed that she never read it to Juanita. Too scary, she decreed. Bobby read it on his own by the time he was seven, and he seemed to take it seriously. I had to explain to him what fantasy meant, because some of the characters—especially the most powerful witch—seemed too real to him.

But both of our big projects were still well in the future that day as Jessie and I hunkered down over her comeback baseball article. I was considering possible leads she could use, only to find myself carried away by the momentous conversations with Petie and Tommy. While Jessie and I bounced around opening lines that might grab the average fan, I jumped ahead to a simple ending.

The words sent a warm sensation coursing through my veins, like the sun lighting up a ball field in early spring. I remembered the first game our dad had taken us to when we were five years old. From then on, baseball had been woven into the backdrop of our childhood. We had always thought of it as the one game that grown men could play with the exuberance of boys. That was the only way to play it—with joy, untainted by politics.

I said the line aloud: "No more fighting. Let's play ball."
