Access to Power


 

 

 

 

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R O B E R T   E L L I S

 

 

Murder Season

 

The Lost Witness

 

City of Fire

 

The Dead Room


 

 

 

 

This is a work of fiction. All characters, opinions, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

 

ACCESS TO POWER

 

Copyright © 2001 by Robert Ellis

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.


 

 

 

 

For my mother, Constance, my brother, Peter, and for Charlotte


 

 

 

 

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

 

Without the help of many great friends, this book wouldn’t exist. I’d like to thank Neil Oxman and Mark Moskowitz, who have been there for me since this was only an idea. Thomas “Doc” Sweitzer, Ray Noll, and Don Widdoes assisted with research and good stories, all of which helped find the tone for this novel.

Many thanks go to John W. Nelson, Adrianne Carageorge, Michael Conway, Meghan Sadler-Conway, Lisa Cabanel, Bill Wachob, Mike Hamilburg, Peter Hyams, and Tony Michelman for reading early drafts and pointing me in the right direction.

And then there’s Frank Weimann and Kate Duffy, who believed in me. I can’t thank Frank and Kate enough for their support and guidance and hard work on my behalf.

I’d also like to give thanks to my good friend and mentor, John Truby. John’s advice and counsel have made all the difference here.

I’ve saved Charlotte Conway for last because I think it takes a very special woman to live with a writer. We’ve run this mile together, Char, side by side.


 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

 

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 that she had 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 blond 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 that 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 loud whirling sound. She watched with blank curiosity as the long drill bit punched out holes in all four sides of the trunk.