Read Online My Gal Sunday by Mary Higgins Clark - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mary Higgins Clark
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Des?” Henry asked.
“None, oddly enough. If we can believe these people — ”
“
Can
we believe these people?” Henry asked, interrupting.
Des sighed. “We have little choice, Henry.”
“What are the plans?” Henry held his breath after asking the question, afraid of what he might hear.
“Henry, Jerry is here with me,” Des said. Jerry was Jeremy Thomas, secretary of the treasury.
Henry interrupted: “Des, how long can we drag it out while we seem to play along?”
“We’re supposed to get another message at one of the Departments at five o’clock. We think we can stall until Thursday afternoon, at least. Fortunately the
Washington Post
carried a story this morning about several minor mechanical adjustments that have to be made before the new plane can take its first flight on Friday.” He paused. “And to put your mind at rest even a little, be assured that we absolutely intend to go through with the exchange.”
Henry’s body shuddered as he allowed himself the first deep breath in several minutes. He looked at his watch. It was four o’clock Wednesday afternoon. If they were lucky they had twenty-four hours. “I’m on my way, Des,” Henry said.
Tom Wyman, the agent second in command, broke the silence that followed the click of the phones: “The helicopter is waiting, sir. The plane is in readiness for immediate departure.”
For several long moments Sunday felt so confused and disoriented that she almost had to remind herself of her own name. Where am I? she wondered, as her mind gradually woke up to the realization that something had gone terribly wrong. The immediate physical sensation was of being tied down. Her arms and legs hurt, but there was also a feeling of numbness. Something was holding her body rigid. She twisted slightly, and a mental image came to her of towels and sheets, stiffly flapping in the icy wind on the roof of her grandmother’s apartment building in New Jersey. Clothesline, she thought. The harsh, abrasive cords that were confining her felt like old-fashioned clothesline.
Her head still felt groggy and strangely weighted, as though a boulder were pressing down on it. She forced her eyes open but could see nothing. She gasped slightly as she realized that something was covering her face and head, a thick, scratchy cloth of some kind that made her face itchy and warm.
But the rest of her body was cold. Her arms were especially cold. She twisted slightly and realized that she wasn’t wearing her jacket. The twisting also made her realize that her right arm was hurting from where the cord was digging into the bruise she had gotten when she fell off Appleby.
Sunday did a quick assessment of her situation: Okay, so I have a piece of burlap or canvas or something over my head, and I am trussed up like a Christmas turkey, she thought. And I am in a cold room somewhere. But where? And what happened? She didn’t remember anything. Had there been an accident? Was she in an operating room, confined on the table, waking up in surgery?
Then she remembered: something had happened in the car.
That was it! Something had happened in the car. But what?
She forced herself to try to remember, to calmly go over the events of the day. The House had adjourned at three o’clock. Art and Leo had been waiting for her as they always did, in the area off the cloakroom. She had not gone back to her office as she usually did, because there was a reception at the French embassy that she had to attend and she needed to get home to change for it. So they had gotten in the car and headed across town. Then what?
Sunday tried to force back the moan that she could feel escaping her lips. She’d always prided herself on not being a crybaby. Irrationally she thought back on the time when she was nine years old and had been swinging from a bar in the school yard and had slipped. She had seen the ground rushing up toward her before her forehead had smashed against the pebbled concrete. She
“None, oddly enough. If we can believe these people — ”
“
Can
we believe these people?” Henry asked, interrupting.
Des sighed. “We have little choice, Henry.”
“What are the plans?” Henry held his breath after asking the question, afraid of what he might hear.
“Henry, Jerry is here with me,” Des said. Jerry was Jeremy Thomas, secretary of the treasury.
Henry interrupted: “Des, how long can we drag it out while we seem to play along?”
“We’re supposed to get another message at one of the Departments at five o’clock. We think we can stall until Thursday afternoon, at least. Fortunately the
Washington Post
carried a story this morning about several minor mechanical adjustments that have to be made before the new plane can take its first flight on Friday.” He paused. “And to put your mind at rest even a little, be assured that we absolutely intend to go through with the exchange.”
Henry’s body shuddered as he allowed himself the first deep breath in several minutes. He looked at his watch. It was four o’clock Wednesday afternoon. If they were lucky they had twenty-four hours. “I’m on my way, Des,” Henry said.
Tom Wyman, the agent second in command, broke the silence that followed the click of the phones: “The helicopter is waiting, sir. The plane is in readiness for immediate departure.”
For several long moments Sunday felt so confused and disoriented that she almost had to remind herself of her own name. Where am I? she wondered, as her mind gradually woke up to the realization that something had gone terribly wrong. The immediate physical sensation was of being tied down. Her arms and legs hurt, but there was also a feeling of numbness. Something was holding her body rigid. She twisted slightly, and a mental image came to her of towels and sheets, stiffly flapping in the icy wind on the roof of her grandmother’s apartment building in New Jersey. Clothesline, she thought. The harsh, abrasive cords that were confining her felt like old-fashioned clothesline.
Her head still felt groggy and strangely weighted, as though a boulder were pressing down on it. She forced her eyes open but could see nothing. She gasped slightly as she realized that something was covering her face and head, a thick, scratchy cloth of some kind that made her face itchy and warm.
But the rest of her body was cold. Her arms were especially cold. She twisted slightly and realized that she wasn’t wearing her jacket. The twisting also made her realize that her right arm was hurting from where the cord was digging into the bruise she had gotten when she fell off Appleby.
Sunday did a quick assessment of her situation: Okay, so I have a piece of burlap or canvas or something over my head, and I am trussed up like a Christmas turkey, she thought. And I am in a cold room somewhere. But where? And what happened? She didn’t remember anything. Had there been an accident? Was she in an operating room, confined on the table, waking up in surgery?
Then she remembered: something had happened in the car.
That was it! Something had happened in the car. But what?
She forced herself to try to remember, to calmly go over the events of the day. The House had adjourned at three o’clock. Art and Leo had been waiting for her as they always did, in the area off the cloakroom. She had not gone back to her office as she usually did, because there was a reception at the French embassy that she had to attend and she needed to get home to change for it. So they had gotten in the car and headed across town. Then what?
Sunday tried to force back the moan that she could feel escaping her lips. She’d always prided herself on not being a crybaby. Irrationally she thought back on the time when she was nine years old and had been swinging from a bar in the school yard and had slipped. She had seen the ground rushing up toward her before her forehead had smashed against the pebbled concrete. She
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