Split Second

Next a picture of Michelle Maxwell appeared on the screen while some more background information on the woman was given. A high school all-American in basketball and track and a heavyweight academic as well, she'd gone on to graduate from Georgetown in three years, with criminal justice as her major. If that wasn't high-octane enough, during college she'd turned her considerable athletic talents to another sport and had won a silver medal at the Olympics in women's rowing: a scholar athlete, what could be more inspiring? After a year as a police officer in her native Tennessee she'd joined the Service, ferociously worked her way up the ladder at double-quick time and was currently enjoying the wonderful status of a scapegoat.

And a handsome scapegoat she was, King thought, and then caught himself. Handsome? And yet there were masculine qualities about her, the forceful, almost swaggering way in which she walked, the impressive spread of shoulders-no doubt all that rowing-the jawline that seemed to promise extreme obstinacy at frequent intervals. And yet the feminine side was certainly there. She was over five-nine and, despite the broad shoulders, slender, but she had nice, subtle curves too. The hair was black, straight and shoulder-length, regulation enough for the Service but still stylish. The cheekbones were high and firm, the eyes green, luminous and intelligent-clearly those eyes missed very little. In the Secret Service such X-ray vision was a necessity.

The overall look was not that of a classic beauty, but Michelle was probably the girl who was always faster and smarter than all the boys. In high school she likely had every male gunning to bethe first to steal her virginity. From the look of the woman, though, he doubted any had succeeded on anything other than Maxwell's terms.

Well, he said silently to the TV screen, there is life after the Service. You can start over and re-create yourself. You can be reasonably happy against all the odds. But you never do forget. Sorry, Michelle Maxwell, I speak from experience on that one too.

He checked his watch. Time to go to his real job drafting wills and leases and charging by the hour. Not nearly as exciting as his old occupation, yet at this stage of his life Sean King was very much into boring routine. He'd had enough excitement to last him several lifetimes.

6

King backed his Lexus convertible, top down, out of the garage and headed off to work for the second time in eight hours. The drive took him through winding roads, fabulous views, the occasional wildlife sighting and not much traffic, at least until he hit the road into town, where the automobile volume picked up some. His law office was located on the appropriately named Main Street, the only avenue of consequence in the downtown area of Wrightsburg, a small and relatively new township halfway between the far larger municipalities of Charlottesville and Lynchburg.

He parked in the lot behind the two-story white brick town home that housed King Baxter, Attorneys and Counselors-at-Law, as the shingle hanging outside proudly proclaimed. He'd gone to law school thirty minutes away at the University of Virginia before dropping out after two years and opting for a career in the Secret Service. At the time, he wanted more adventure than a stack of law books and the Socratic method could provide. Well, he'd had his share of adventure.

After the dust settled from the Clyde Ritter killing, he'd left the Secret Service, finished his degree and opened a solo practice in Wrightsburg. It had now expanded to a two-lawyer firm, and King's life was finally clicking on all cylinders. He was a respected counselor and friend to many of the most prominent in the area. He gave back to the community as a volunteer deputy police officer and inother ways as well. One of the most eligible bachelors in the area, he dated when he wanted and didn't when he didn't. He had a wide assortment of friends, though few who were intimates. He liked his work, enjoyed his free time and didn't let much rattle him. His life was marching itself off in carefully constructed and unspectacular measure. He was perfectly fine with that.

As he got out of the Lexus, he saw the woman and contemplated ducking back inside, but she'd already spotted him and rushed over.

"Hello, Susan," he said as he pulled his briefcase out of the passenger seat.

"You look tired," she said. "I don't know how you do it."

"Do what?"

"Busy lawyer by day, police officer by night."

"Volunteer deputy police officer, Susan, and only one night a week. In fact, the most exhilarating thing to happen last night was swerving my truck to miss hitting a possum."

"I bet when you were with the Secret Service, you went days without sleep. How exciting, if exhausting."

"Not exactly," he said, and started to head to his office. She followed.