“Boneheads,” Taylor said from the doorway. “They've killed a Marine.” He came into the room, hugged Hardesty hard. “NCIS will be all over them, before you know it.” Hardesty managed a wry smile and forced herself to relax enough to reassure the boy. She looked up at Bidwell, who patted her shoulder.
“I wish the world did work more like TV,” Hardesty said quietly.
“It will if we help it,” Bidwell told her. He gestured at the screen.
“Hey,” Taylor said. “Those are the people who were chasing us in the woods. The ones we hid from.”
Wilson, catching sight of the screen, almost dropped the dishes he'd been carrying back to the sink. “I can't hear that – what are they saying?”
Bidwell thumbed the remote and the volume rose.
“...Hardesty. It's unknown at this time,” the woman went on, “whether in fact Secret Service Supervisory Agent Timothy Wilson is a participant in the kidnapping or a third victim. Since the vehicle and equipment Wilson was operating have not been found, and in light of the slaying of the Marine whose rifle Hardesty carried out of the woods ...”
Wilson stood there, in the middle of the room with his back to the window, staring open-mouthed at the television.
“...with too many Senators unable to return immediately for the vote,” the woman went on. “We're afraid the Vice President's been eliminated as well. So we're asking the Speaker to move for an invocation of the Amendment immediately ...”
Bidwell surged to his feet, swearing.
“...meanwhile, please report any sightings of this boy to the proper authorities ...” a photo of Taylor – very recent – filled the screen.
The Vice President of the United States used a savage snap of the remote. “How dare she ...”
“That murder victim wasn't just a Marine,” Wilson said. “Sergeant James Raven had nineteen years and eleven months and eighteen days in service. He worked with the Detail for the last nine weeks, because he was our incoming liaison for Marine One communications.”
“That's what he was doing out in the woods with the rifle?”
“Every Marine is a rifleman,” Wilson said indirectly. He turned and stared at Hardesty. “That was Bill Waddell standing on that platform. Robertson's people include the former head of the Detail.”
“I know,” she answered. “This goes a lot deeper than one rogue Marine Colonel, doesn't it?”
“Maybe not,” Wilson said. “So far as I know Raven was the straightest kind of arrow. And Raven hadn't carried a rifle in years, before my boss tapped him for the estate search.”
“Your boss?” Hardesty asked.
“That woman on television,” Wilson answered wearily, “is also known as Regent One. She's the most dangerous single individual it's ever been my privilege to work with.”
Hardesty studied Wilson. “So, when we checked into this place, I didn't notice any hotel security cameras in obvious places. What do you figure the coverage really is?”
“I'm glad there's been a shift change since we checked in,” he answered.
“There's a fire-escape map,” Hardesty said, leafing through the binder of information for guests parked on the suite's tidy work-station tabletop. She flipped out the page to its full-size. “Business center, office, lobby, guest laundry, pool, diner ... rooms here. Second floor a guest laundry, exercise center, more rooms ... third floor two conference areas in this wing and ... presto.”
Wilson peered over her shoulder. “Yeah, that looks like it.”
“Looks like what?” Bidwell asked. “It says utilities.”
“Doesn't say what kind,” Wilson said idly. “Might mean anything from a janitor's cubby to ... the hotel security office to ...”
Fourteen minutes later he whispered in annoyance, “...pipe chases and electrical boxes.” Carefully, he stepped through the door; its lock, not set up for a keycard, had been surprisingly easy to work around. He closed the door almost to behind himself and advanced along the utilitarian, hallway-like space. “And ...” his voice trailed off.
Hardesty, outside in the hall, tapped knuckles against the door. “You OK?”
Wilson emerged, dusting himself off. “It's a closed-circuit system. Looks like they record one full tape every 24 hours, and store the last week's worth somewhere off-site. The next one due to be loaded shows a date from two weeks ago tomorrow.”
“Not too shabby,” Hardesty murmured. “So they bill on a seven-day cycle, and keep a seven-day security log in case of insufficient funds or claims for lost luggage or whatever.”
Wilson grinned. “What we need is a magnet.” She gave him a plainly boggled look. “A sufficiently strong magnet will erase video tapes,” he explained. “Also computer hard drives, audio tapes, possibly flash drives and random-access-memory chips.”
“Wouldn't it have to be an awfully powerful magnet?” she wrinkled her nose. “Like a junkyard car lifter?”
He grinned. “You,” he said, “used to watch as much TV as Taylor, didn't you?”
“Spent a lot of Friday nights in Hazzard County,” she replied, “trying not to grow up in spite of graduating high school.”
He chuckled softly. “Did it work?”
“So far,” she answered. “What about you, Wilson?”
“I was a big fan of Bill Nye the Science Guy,” Wilson said. He pushed the button on the elevator. “It doesn't have to be a huge magnet if it's close enough to the tape or you make several passes with it. Something like one of those business-card refrigerator magnets, even, could make the tape useless for identifying the people on it.”
Hardesty bit her lip, closed her eyes, leaned against the elevator door. “I know where there's something better than that. In the kitchenette, in the suite. On the side of the oven – there's a fire extinguisher. It's held in place with a magnet.”
Wilson lifted her hand to his lips and bestowed an elegant kiss. “You're a genius.” He freed her hand, and added as he hurried away along the hall, “Go on back and tell the Boss everything's under control.”
“Because ...”
“Because there's a kitchen right across the hall, in that big conference room. If they put magnetic fire extinguishers in every kitchenette, they probably put two or three in the caterers' area.” He flashed her a grin. “I'll be down in two shakes.”
Hardesty bumped the stairwell door with her hip, as the elevator had not arrived, and hurried away.
She found Bidwell brewing tea – very strong tea. She sniffed the concoction curiously as he locked the suite door behind her. “Got a cold?”
“Preventing something worse,” he said. “Look, I can do Taylor. But I need your help, after.”
“Do Taylor?”
He gestured with the heavy glass mug. “I can get him to let me soak his hair and eyebrows with this, to darken them. I can run a chapstick along his eyelids and the edges of his hair so it doesn't stain his skin. I can even time it – but to do something about my hair, I need somebody who can see if I've missed any spots in the back or on the top.”
“Oh,” she said instantly. “Why tea?”
“Coffee smells too strong,” he answered. “You never told me how you got those blonde streaks, at the truck stop.” His gaze turned quizzical. “Highlights ... Whatever you call 'em. They look good, by the way.”
She grinned. “Thanks. I picked up some first-aid peroxide and lemon juice at the convenience store.”
“The ponytail and glasses make a difference,” he said, and suddenly his voice seemed to catch. “I ... uh ... you know, Taylor's crazy about you.”
“Funny,” she said. “That's what he told me about you.” She looked up at him, expecting that casual, sideways, open grin – and surprised a look on his face that took her breath away.
“Get out of this in one piece, Angela,” he said. “Please.”
Hardesty suddenly felt no urge at all toward flippancy. “We will. All of us. Bet on it.”

Wilson let himself in a few minutes later to a suite that, as far as he could tell, had gone empty. He glanced quickly into the kitchenette, then headed for the separate bedroom. Finding no one there, he noticed the bathroom door partly closed.
“What in the world ...” Taylor sat on the corner of the vanity, wrapped in a towel, with his father daubing a cotton ball into his eyebrows. Bidwell's focus had kept him from hearing Wilson come in; now he stopped, stared at the door, and blinked. Taylor grinned at him, and Wilson whistled softly. “That what I think it is?”
“More disguise,” the boy said happily.
Wilson glanced around. “Where's Hardesty?”