The following chapters are unedited. Chapters 1 and 2 set up the context. Chapter 5 has been added in order to make the introduction of George Raymond more complete.

      She thought she might be dead at first. She couldn't move. Couldn't think. Everything pitch black except for a single bar of light, pulsating at a distance a mile or two off.
      The sound of her breath, shallow and faint, began to register through the haze. Her ears were ringing. She felt a draft flutter across the back of her neck, the coolness of a hardwood floor pressing against her cheek. But her eyes remained fixed on that bar of light as it seemed to rush toward her and recognition finally took place that she had been staring at the light beneath the bedroom door not more than ten feet from where she lay.
      She guessed she'd been unconscious. She tried moving her legs again, then her arms, even her fingers. Nothing worked.
      The door swung open and two men entered the room. They were whispering and seemed agitated, their movement jittery as they rushed to her side not bothering to waste time switching on the lights.
      Help was on its way.
      She could see bed sheets tossed onto the floor, her legs spread open, a lock of blonde hair over her bare chest. A hand rested on her breast, but she couldn't feel its touch. It was a man's left hand, and she noticed he wore a wedding ring. The two men became quiet as the hand moved to her wrist, held it for a moment, then let go.
      Why was he shaking his head?
      She wanted to say something and tried, but the room remained silent. It dawned on her that her neck might be broken. And she hoped they wouldn't try to move her until the ambulance arrived.
      They were whispering again. Muttering. One of them walked out, she thought to get the door. But then the man returned, dragging a trunk into the room. He plugged something into the wall and began poking the trunk with it. The machine made a whirling sound. She watched with blank curiosity as the long drill bit punched out holes in all four sides of the trunk. She could see light passing through it, reminding her of white hot polka dots.
      Then both men touched her.
      They grabbed her by the ankles, yanking her across the floor toward the trunk. She tried to scream, shriek. She tried to tell them that something was wrong with her neck, her spine. That to move her like this might mean her never being able to walk again. She explained everything. She pleaded, cried out, unable to get through to them or anyone else, her voice mute. Mere imagination mixed with lost hope.
      The two men picked her up and dropped her into the trunk like a rag doll. She watched as the lid closed over her head, hoping they would look at her eyes as she tried to blink. She was alive, trying to blink.
      She heard the latches snap shut, then felt the sensation of lift as they carried her away, through a garage and out to a sports utility vehicle that waited with its engine running. When the trunk came to a rest in the back she saw a face through the holes. Briefly. His skin was smooth and young looking. His eyes a hollow gray that matched the lifeless color of his hair spiked out in a long crew.
      The face vanished and she heard the doors slam. She sensed the SUV's movement, peering out at the light dancing on the window as they drove through the city. Minutes passed as if a short time. Buildings. Monuments. The traffic noise of the Capitol district fading as they reached quieter streets and finally pulled to a stop. The sound of the engine died off, followed by silence. A long stretch of silence as if she were alone with her heart pounding.
      She listened for the doors, but they hadn't opened. There was something in the background though. A lapping sound, as if they were near water. From the dank scent in the air, she thought it might be the Potomac River.
      She focused on the sound of her heartbeat, hoping the two men might hear it as they sat up front without speaking. Then the doors suddenly flew open and the back gate swung down. The two men grabbed the trunk and started running. She saw the man's face again, teeth clenched as he carried his end of the load. The sound of their shoes smacking against asphalt, then gravel, then the dead silence of grass padding their feet could only mean one thing. She tried to scream, her body bouncing up and down. They were running faster and still faster until the bounce finally stopped and she felt herself being hurled through the air.
      There was a great splash. Her head slammed against the side of the trunk, then settled as ice cold water ran down her face. She was floating. The trunk was floating. She looked through the holes and could see the bright lights of Washington ahead. The Capitol lost in a sea of stars, sparkling as if in a dream.
      Someone gasped.
      When she realized it had come from her own lips, she sucked in air and forced it out quickly through her teeth. She heard it. A light whistle. A signal to the two men who must be watching from the river bank that she was still alive.
      She took in another deep breath and forced it out with all her strength. The whistle grew less faint. She did it again and again, the water rushing through the holes and over her knees. She whistled, signaled, kept her eyes on the Capitol. The feeling in her body was coming back, the water rising until it washed over her face. Her chest stiffened and she screamed. It was real this time. She heard it in the river as her lungs filled with water and the trunk began to sway, then pitch forward, tumbling at a severe angle to the bottom.

      Frank Miles grabbed the remote, hit stop, rewind, and then play. A political ad flashed up on the TV screen.
      It was an off-year election, meaning that the presidency wasn't up for grabs. Most of Frank's races this cycle were state-wides and Senate incumbents that would bring in a lot of money by the sheer number of campaigns. Of the firm's thirty clients, twelve belonged to Frank with the rest split between his two partners. Frank knew ten of his clients would win, one was ridiculous and had no chance. But the last would be a tough call, his primary focus. A U.S. Senate seat had opened up in Virginia. His client, Mel Merdock, a Senate wanna-be, needed a fortune to play and had it to spend. But he was young, green, new to politics. And their opponent was a seasoned businessman who spoke common sense and had a solid political base. Lou Kay was popular and ready, and his consultants had fired their first salvo. A tough negative ad that hit every TV station in the state.
      Frank managed to get a VHS copy of Lou Kay's spot an hour after it had been delivered to the stations. There was a map of the United States with lots of graphics, then shots of Virginia cities and neighborhoods under a cutout photo of Mel Merdock smiling. Whistles and gongs -- the whole thing was meticulously put together to look like a game show. And Mel Merdock, Frank's client and candidate for the U.S. Senate, with his trim body and boyish face, came off naive. Even goofy. Let's face it, Frank thought, his client looked like an idiot.

	VOICE-OVER ANNOUNCER
	Question. Of these five places -- New York, Washington, LA, Fort Worth, or the entire state of Virginia -- where has Texas millionaire and son of an oil tycoon now turned senatorial candidate Mel Merdock NOT lived in the last ten years? If you guessed Virginia -- you're right! Millionaire Mel Merdock has never lived, voted, or paid taxes in Virginia, and only moved here from Fort Worth to run for office. Does it make sense for Virginia to elect someone who hasn't lived here? Of course not. We need a senator who will fight for us -- not millionaire Mel Merdock. Virginia's Lou Kay. He's a working guy. He's one of us!

      Frank hit the pause button, staring at the image as his mind chewed over what he had just seen.
      "We're dead," he finally muttered.
      Everyone in the office was packed into the media room, poised for his reaction. He could feel Woody, his partner since law school, scowling at him from the doorway through a pair of thick, wire-rimmed glasses. Linda, new to the firm four years ago, sat at the table in back, holding in a smile with a pen between her lips. His assistant Tracy and the two interns rented from Georgetown, Harry and Tom, were huddled up front, wanting to learn something, waiting for orders as Frank thought about what to do.
      Frank knew for a fact that everything in Lou Kay's ad was true. Mel Merdock was the son of a rich man. Texas oil money. He probably hadn't gotten a job on his own merits his whole life. Merdock was also a carpetbagger: his only connection with the state of Virginia being that he wanted to fill the open seat. Because they were three weeks from election day, people watching their televisions were beginning to focus on the race. Lou Kay's negative ad would do damage. The spot's message would cut through.
      Linda crossed her legs and gently cleared her throat. "It's not like you weren't expecting it."
      "We're dead," Frank repeated. "How many times did they use the word millionaire?"
      She gave him a look, flashing that smile again. "I counted three."
      Linda was in her early thirties and had natural blonde hair cut just below the shoulders. Her face was refined, striking. Her green eyes, steady and clear, especially when in the company of men, working or otherwise Frank had noticed, where her ease and confidence seemed contagious. Dressed in a business suit made of fine European tweed, the expensive cloth fit the contours of her slender body like a glove. Her skirt was cut well above the knee. Her tight-fitting jacket designed to be worn without a blouse or jewelry. She looked fabulous.
      "You're on the wrong side," Woody said. "Merdock's everything they say he is only a hundred times worse and you know it, Frank."
      Frank jerked his head toward the door. "Stewart Brown is doing Lou Kay's campaign. If I don't hit back, we'll lose."
      Frank turned to Tracy. He knew that whatever he did had to be done quickly. Now.
      "I need someone to read a spot," he said. "Call Sammy or Rick. We need to be recording the voice track in thirty minutes. Then call Vintage Video. Tell them to clear out a room. I want to be editing in an hour."
      "You want messengers?" she asked, writing everything down.
      He nodded, turning back to Lou Kay's spot frozen on the monitor and pointing the disclaimer out to his interns. "I want you guys to call the TV stations. Tell them Lou Kay's disclaimer violates the election code. It's too small. Tell them if they air it again, they'll be fined. And try to act like you know what you're talking about."
      Harry leaned toward the monitor, adjusting his glasses. "It looks okay to me."
      "It is okay," Linda said. "But they'll have to pull the spot to check. It won't be running."
      Harry laughed as it sank in. Vintage Frank Miles.
      It was a trick used to buy time. Frank knew the television stations would have to pull Lou Kay's spot against Mel Merdock out of the rotation in order to electronically measure the size of the disclaimer. The size of the disclaimer, PAID FOR BY FRIENDS OF LOU KAY FOR THE U.S. SENATE, measured in scan lines, had always been a sensitive issue because consultants like Frank had always tried to hide it, bury it, particularly when on the attack. Depending on how busy the TV stations were, how much time it took, it was possible Frank could respond with a new commercial before Lou Kay's ad did any damage at all.
      "What about script approval?" Tracy asked, smiling.
      "Forget it," Frank said as he bolted out the door. "I'm gonna kill these guys."

      Parked across the street from Miles, Darrow & Associates, George Raymond sat in his Accord trying to get one last look at the place in the afternoon light. He'd already scouted the location two days before, but another look never hurt.
      The building was surprisingly informal, more like a house than an office, and he guessed there had to be a history to the place. But what he liked most about the layout was the privacy. The political media firm was the sole occupant and owned the property. Tucked away from the street, the building stood hidden in the trees behind thick, ivy-covered walls.
      The front door opened. Raymond watched one of the partners cross the lot to a white Lexus carrying a garment bag and a stack of videotapes. He looked rushed, barreling out of the lot without taking in his surroundings. When the car disappeared around the corner, Raymond sat back, sipping coffee from his travel mug and letting his mind wander.
      In spite of the bricks lining the bottom, the trunk had floated almost a hundred yards before it finally sank in the Potomac.
      He had returned to the river the next day for a casual look around. The water appeared deep and murky. No one would miss her for weeks, if at all. No one would find her for years, if ever. It had been a good spot, he decided, even though it had been chosen in haste. And he liked the idea that she was in Washington, within view of the cameras every night on the evening news. Watching TV would be more fun knowing she was there. Still, he'd heard something just as the trunk vanished below the surface. A whistling sound. He remembered checking for a pulse and not finding one. Beneath the blonde hair, her face looked battered. From what he could tell, her neck was snapped. He smiled at the thought of her going into the water alive and promised himself that when the night was over, he'd return to the Iwo Jima Motel and call his wife. Better make sure she and the kids were okay before taking a long hot shower and getting some sleep. The world could be a scary place. One could never tell.
      The cassette in his tape player switched sides. It was an audiobook by his favorite author and included the ten key steps he would need to achieve success in his business and personal relationships. Raymond had listened to all six tapes in the series many times before. Side 1 covered defining the problem issues in his life. Side 2 would be addressing his goals and how to reach them.
      As the tape started, he studied his hair in the rearview mirror. He'd been gray for ten years, but liked the new cut. A long crew that had a hint of spike to it. He was forty-five now. And his new cut had done just what his stylist suggested it might: change his self-image by making him look ten years younger without a dye job.
      He glanced at his teeth, bright and clean, listening to the tape and deciding he'd better save it for later. Goals were important and Raymond knew his mind was skipping over the good parts. Planning a business strategy was the key step. The one losers always glossed over. He returned the tape to its vinyl case and slid it under the seat. Then he picked up his file, opened it to a photocopy and had another look.
      It was an article dated six months earlier from the Washington Post. A crime story from the Metro Section detailing the burglary and arrest of two teenagers, Sonny Stockwell and Alan Ingrams. Raymond had gone to the library the day before and found it in the newspaper's archives as he searched for just the right person.
      Photos of the two burglars were included. And as Raymond glanced at them, he felt sure Stockwell was the leader. The kid looked young for his age, even smart, with a huge chip on his shoulder. The article sketched his troubled history in a single paragraph and even mentioned the block number where he lived with his grandmother. Sonny Stockwell would be perfect. And he lived just ten minutes away in a section of Washington that would never wind up on a postcard because only the forgotten lived there. Just like the girl in the river behind all those monuments. No one would ever remember her. No one would ever guess.