Play with Fire

chapter Two

THE DOOR THAT constituted gate four swung open, finally, at eleven twenty-four. Quincey Morris walked through and Libby caught a glimpse of the uniformed corrections officer who pulled the door shut again after Morris was outside. Morris hunched his shoulders against the cold – unsurprising, since he wore only the lightweight suit he’d been arrested in last July.

Libby blinked her lights once to be sure he saw her, and then put the big car into gear. By the time Morris reached the end of the sidewalk that led to the parking lot, Libby was parked there waiting for him.

He got in, pulled the door shut, and turned to look at her.

“How you doin’, cowboy?” Libby asked.

A grin split Morris’s lean face. “Better now. A hell of a lot better now.”

Libby touched the gas and headed the car toward the parking lot exit. After a moment Morris said, “Nice wheels.”

“It’s rented, of course. You know I can’t afford to keep a car – especially one like this – in New York. But I thought the occasion warranted something a little special. In fact, I don’t know what happened to the brass band I hired. They were supposed to be here at eleven, and I’ve had them practicing ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’ for weeks.” Libby shook her head in mock disappointment. “You just can’t count on anybody, these days.”

As Libby turned into the street, Morris looked at her thoughtfully. “I don’t know, Libby,” he said. “I’m pretty sure there are a few people who can be counted on. Like your own self, for instance. Thank you – for everything.”

“Heck, you’re the one who just spent six months in the slam – courtesy of an ungrateful nation, who doesn’t appreciate what you saved it from.”

“You did as much of the saving as I did, if not more. Anyhow, you can’t expect gratitude from people who don’t know what really happened.”

“I suppose. But a few people do know. And some of them actually are grateful.”

Libby’s big purse was wedged between the bucket seats. After a quick glance down, she reached in and removed an envelope, which she handed to Morris. “This guy, for instance.”

Morris looked at the envelope. The return address was listed simply as “The White House, Washington, D.C.” In the center, Morris’s name was written, in ink.

Libby saw his look out of the corner of her eye. “A big envelope, containing that and another one with my name on it, was delivered to my place yesterday by a couple of large gentlemen in suits. They did not, I suspect, work for FedEx – although the ‘Fed’ part might well apply.”

Morris opened the envelope to find a single sheet of expensive looking paper with the same simple address as the envelope. The letter was written by hand, in black, spider-thin ink.

Morris looked at the sheet for a lot longer than it should take to read the brief contents. Finally he asked Libby, “Wanna hear what it says?”

“Sure.”

Dear Mister Morris,

I used to think that I understood this world we live in reasonably well. But in the last few days I have learned some things that I once could never have imagined, let alone believed. However, the evidence I have seen is impossible to deny. It would seem that a small group of heroic people – led, I understand, by you and Ms. Libby Chastain, have saved the United States, indeed the world, from unimaginable catastrophe. You, and the others, undoubtedly deserve the Medal of Freedom, a ticker tape parade, and a generous pension for life. But if I tried to bestow upon all of you these just rewards, one of two things would happen. Our fellow citizens would not believe my reasons for doing so, and I would be judged insane. Or, perhaps worse, they would believe me, and the entire nation might well go insane.

Having the Attorney General drop all charges against you and your colleagues is the very least I can do. Your arrest records will also be quietly expunged.

On behalf of a nation that will never know the invaluable service you rendered it, please accept my thanks.

Sincerely, Robert J. Leffingwell.

“Well, that’s nice of him.” Morris said. “Pity I can’t have it framed to put on the wall.”

“I can see how that might cause awkward questions,” Libby said. “So what will you do with it?”

“Remember that fireproof safe at my house – the one you put the aversion spell on, so nobody but me could open it?”

“Sure I do.”

“Inside, there’s a good-sized metal box that holds what I think of as the ‘Morris Family’s Memorabilia Collection.’ Been in the family for something like eighty years. The letter’s going in there.”

“Now that’s a collection I wouldn’t mind seeing, sometime,” Libby said.

“I’d say you’ve earned the right, quite a few times over. Just remind me, next time you’re down in Austin. You might be interested to see that this isn’t the first presidential letter that’ll be in there.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised at all. There’s another one, huh?”

“There’s two of ’em, actually. One’s got FDR’s signature on it. The other one’s from Lyndon Johnson.”

“I can hardly wait,” Libby said. “But what would you like to do now?”

“For starters, jail food being what it is, I’m lookin’ to get myself on the outside of the biggest, juiciest steak to be found in this town.”

“I thought you might have something like that in mind. Our reservation at Peter Luger’s is for twelve thirty. We should just make it.”

“Bless you. Then, after reminding myself what real food is like, I wish to consume a large quantity of very good bourbon, preferably someplace private so I won’t make a drunken fool of myself. Be kind of ironic to get arrested for drunk and disorderly my first day out of jail.”

“That had occurred to me, too. I’ve got a suite reserved at the Plaza, and in its living room you will find two bottles of Jack Daniel’s finest aged bourbon.”

“Christ, Libby – this is all fantastic, but must be costing you a fortune.”

She shrugged. “The Sisterhood came through with a fat check – your half’s in the bank, by the way.”

“The Sisterhood?”

“They did hire us, remember – even if they had no idea at the time just how high the stakes really were. And they felt morally obligated to keep us on the payroll as long as you were locked up.”

The Sisterhood was a loose affiliation of female practitioners of white witchcraft. Many of its members, with successful careers outside the magical world, contributed generously to the organization’s contingency fund.

“That’s good of them.”

“Well, shit, Quincey, all we did was save the United States from a demon-possessed president last summer.”

“Arguably. I mean, Stark might not have won the general election.”

“Arguably still counts with the Sisterhood,” Libby said.

“Well, I hope you’re planning to help me put away some of Mister Daniel’s finest, later.”

“Not my intoxicant of choice. But I’m pretty sure we’ll find a bottle of Grey Goose vodka next to the ice bucket, too. The suite’s got two bedrooms, in one of which I plan to be nursing a massive hangover tomorrow. But it’ll be worth it.”

Morris smiled. “Hope you still think so in the morning.”

Libby drove a few more blocks before speaking again. “So, we’re going to get you the best steak in town, and then go on the biggest private one-night bender in town–”

“Arguably.”

It was her turn to smile. “Arguably. Then what?”

“Well, now that I’m out of durance vile, I assume the Sisterhood is going to cut off the funds.”

“I expect so. Their gratitude, like most people’s, has a short half-life.”

“In that case, maybe it’s time to go back to work.”

“Cowboy, I couldn’t agree more.”