by Jen Blood
Though not that serious, apparently, because once he had Solomon in his arms, he leaned in to whisper something in her ear, and she laughed.
I realized I was staring, and refocused.
I noticed Thibodeau again, this time talking to another couple of uniforms at the edge of the dance floor. Rachel Thibodeau stood in a cluster of local politicians with her sister. Her hair was up, a couple of spiral curls framing her face, and she wore a deep green dress that brought out her eyes and accentuated curves more womanly, a little more lush, than Solomon’s. She smiled and waved me over when she caught my eye.
Since Solomon appeared to be doing just fine without me, I went over to talk to Rachel.
“Do you think your husband will toss me in the clink if I ask you for a dance?” I asked when I reached her.
Though she laughed, it did little to disguise the fatigue around her eyes. “I think he has bigger fish to fry tonight.”
“Probably true,” I agreed. Rachel’s sister wore a sleeveless, deep-violet dress that was some kind of velvet material, a Celtic cross at her neck. The dress gave me a better glimpse of her Ganesha tattoo, the trunk wrapped around her bicep. She was a head taller than her sister, standing eye level with me in her heels.
“Nice to see you again, Laura,” I said.
“You too,” she said. “You’ll have to let me know when you run that article on Applewood—Robert had a great time talking to you the other day.”
“I’ll send a few extra copies of the paper when it comes out. I think it’ll be a good issue.”
“Will you hold my drink, Laur?” Rachel asked, interrupting us. Laura looked around uncomfortably and shook her head.
“You know, I think I’m gonna get out of here. About the time Foster gets up there...” She made no attempt to hide her disgust, piquing my interest. “Anyway, when I drove up the Richie Riches here were looking at my Torino like they’d get the clap from it. I’m gonna take off and grab a beer. Swing by Rosie’s when you’re done here if you want...”
The music slowed. Laura left. Rachel was still game for a dance, though, so I led her onto the dance floor.
“Your sister isn’t a fan of Foster,” I noted.
“Are you?” Rachel asked. She moved well, but I was acutely aware of Thibodeau watching us from across the room.
“He may not be my favorite politician out there,” I said. “I thought you said he’d done a lot for the African community, though. He seems pretty popular.”
“He has, and he is. It’s Laura who has the problem, not me.”
“And what’s her problem with him, if you don’t mind my asking?”
She glanced over her shoulder, as though afraid someone might overhear. “Any information I have comes secondhand. Thirdhand, really. I don’t have a clue if it’s true or not.”
“That’s fine,” I said. The crowd was getting thicker on the dance floor, making the temperature go up a notch. I was sweating in the monkey suit, Rachel’s bare back warm against my hand. I lowered my head to hear her better.
“She’s heard from others that he has a secret room... Which I would actually believe, since his place in Kennebunk is a virtual compound.”
“A secret room. For...what, exactly?” I needed her to say it—there are a lot of things a secret room can be used for.
She sighed. “I told you, it could be crazy. Laura gets ideas in her head. But...a place where he practices some of the African rites he learned when he was over there.”
“What kind of rites?” I asked, giving no reaction.
She leaned back and looked at me evenly. “You know what kind.”
“Let’s pretend I don’t.”
“You saw the way Charlene and Jacob Deng were killed. Those kind of rites.”
“Sacrifices, then,” I said. “Who told your sister this?” She didn’t say anything. I considered what I’d learned so far. Suddenly, something clicked into place.
“Your sister drives a Torino,” I said. “I saw someone the night Mary was leaving town... Was Laura the one who drove Mary Dsengani out of town?”
Rachel looked surprised for a moment before she nodded.
“And I don’t suppose you can tell me where Mary is now?”
“Laura just took her to the bus station. I’m not even sure where she was going.”
Damn. “Have you told your husband about the ritual stuff and Foster?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“And?”
“He can’t get a warrant—not for anything anywhere near Foster. He’s like royalty in Maine; no judge will touch him.”
No judge, maybe, but I knew a vigilante and a couple of reporters who wouldn’t think twice.
There was a solid tap on my shoulder before I could get my next question out.
“You mind if I dance with my wife?” Thibodeau said. “You might want to check on your date, anyway.”
I stepped away from Rachel quickly. She beamed when her husband took her in his arms, the two of them slipping into step together like they’d been doing this for lifetimes.
Across the room, I found Solomon easily—locked in a very uncomfortable-looking embrace with the one and only Paul Rafferty.
◊◊◊◊◊
Rafferty wasn’t enthusiastic when I reached them. Solomon didn’t give him any say in the matter, however, before she stepped away.
“I wouldn’t have thought he’d want anything to do with you after your exchange when we first got here,” I said when he was gone.
“Yeah, well... Rafferty may be creepy, but he’s persistent.” She started to walk off the dance floor. I caught her hand and tugged her back.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Seriously?”
“I want to stick around at least until Foster makes his speech. You have any better ideas to pass the time?”
There was a hint of suggestion in her eyes that caught me off guard. I pulled her closer. “Come on, Sol. One dance.”
She didn’t argue. Her body was warm against mine, and she fit surprisingly well. She also moved surprisingly well.
“When did you learn to dance?”
“There was a class at school,” she admitted. “I always thought it could be kind of cool to learn, but Kat wasn’t really into that kind of thing. Or paying for that kind of thing.”
I ran my hand up her back, the other skimming her side, and felt her shiver against me. “Cold?” I asked, leaning low to murmur it in her ear.
“Not even close,” she whispered back.
The lights were low and the swing band had given it a rest in favor of something a little slower. I was aware of others around us, dimly aware of a timeline and the need to make things happen...after this dance.
Then, from the corner of my eye I saw Rick Foster and Bobby Davies leave the room. Neither of them looked happy.
“Looks like the old frat brothers aren’t getting along so well now,” I said, my mouth still at Solomon’s ear. I turned us so she got a glimpse of them as Davies disappeared through the door.
“You’re right. Damn. He looks pissed.”
She started for them, leading us—or dragging me, more accurately—across the dance floor. I took control much to her dismay, but got us there with a lot fewer eyes watching us than would have been otherwise. At the edge of the room, I peered through the doorway and into a vast, unlit corridor—definitely not the main entrance to the place. Solomon gave me a little push.
“What are you waiting for?” she whispered. “Let’s go.”
The music was still up, the lights still low. Couples swayed. Bigwigs schmoozed. I crept through the doorway, Solomon behind me. I heard the pols arguing before I saw them.
“It isn’t right,” Davies said. Solomon grabbed my arm. We both pulled back and pressed up against the wall. Davies and Foster were in an alcove in the darkened corridor, their voices hushed. “You think it will never come out. They have the pictures—they know—”
“The story’s alre
ady out, Bobby,” Foster said easily. “The pictures have been published. They know what that trip was. Everything we sacrificed. Why are you obsessing about a trip that brought so much good?”
“I brought so much good! I was the one who went back there and tried to repair what you’d broken. Lisette—”
Foster turned on him. For just a second, I heard the edge, the danger, that the congressman concealed so well. “Lisette Mandalay is a junkie looking for attention. She has no proof—”
“The pictures!” Davies almost shouted.
Foster moved in closer. He wrapped his arm around Davies’ shoulders and drew him in. There was no way to hear what was being said, but a moment later, Foster withdrew. I could make out neither of their expressions in the darkness, but something had definitely shifted. Davies appeared beaten, his shoulders suddenly slack.
“Now if you’ll excuse me,” Foster said smoothly, “I’m going to get back to the party. I’ll see you in there won’t I, Bobby?”
He didn’t wait for a response before he slapped Davies on the back and moved off. Solomon and I made ourselves as small as possible against the wall, but the shadows and Foster’s own arrogance ensured the congressman never saw us. As soon as he was gone, Solomon and I swept in. We fell into step beside Davies as he was returning to the ballroom. Once inside, I poured a glass of water from a pitcher on one of the nearby tables and put it in Davies’ hands.
“Interesting conversation with Foster, Councilman?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I...”
“He tried to kill us, Bobby,” I said quietly. “Eugene Elias threatened to do things to my partner that no woman should ever have to think about, let alone endure. Foster was at that camp in Darfur—you know it. He took Lisette Mandalay when she was fourteen years old, and he raped her. Repeatedly. And now, he has their daughter.”
Davies looked at me, shock wearing through the fear. “What did you say?”
“Their daughter,” I repeated, emphasizing the word. Gauging his response. “I know all about it. Foster raped Lisette, and Maisie is a product of that. And somehow or other, Foster figured it out. How convenient is it that his daughter goes missing before accusations ever come out... Before anyone can ever even think to demand a paternity test?”
Davies shook his head, as if in a trance. I’d expected more of a reaction about Maisie, but he seemed fixed on something else. “He’s a master,” he said . “Unstoppable. You have no idea...”
“Ladies and gentlemen...” One of Foster’s aides took the floor. All eyes turned toward him. Foster stood just behind and to his left, still looking smug and self-assured.
I scanned the room while the aide droned on about what a great guy Foster was. Kidris took the stage, and said a few more things about how the world was a better place because Foster was in it. Then, Foster himself took the stage. A hush fell over the crowd. I looked from face to face, searching expressions as Foster raised his hands to quiet the enthusiastic applause.
“Please,” he said. “Thank you so much, each of you, for your generous support. Tonight, however, as you know, our focus is no longer on politics or elections or the high price of running a clean campaign...”
He smiled. I saw him focus on someone in the crowd, and followed his gaze. In an instant, I stiffened. A boy stood among the adults, wearing the same dark blue suit he’d worn at Charlene’s funeral—the suit he’d been buried in fifteen years ago. Josh stared straight at me.
“Diggs?” Solomon whispered.
Foster was still talking. I shifted my gaze to the people around my brother: movers and shakers around town, most of them blue hairs and blue bloods.
Except for the man at the center of them holding a serving tray.
He was taller and more muscular than the other servers there. Broad shoulders, hard eyes, and a deep-felt pain that resonated in his every step.
“Wolf,” I whispered to Solomon.
Foster was talking about Darfur now. His eyes welled. “Bobby and I used to talk about making a difference—it was the lofty talk of two idealists who wanted to change the world, back in college.”
“Where the hell is Thibodeau?” Solomon asked as she scanned the room.
“I’m gonna go grab Wolf before the cops do. Figure out where the detective is and get him here, would you?”
She nodded. Wolf took another couple of steps toward the congressman. There was no doubt Foster had seen him—I saw a faint glimmer of sweat on the congressman’s forehead as he searched for security.
Wolf took another step toward the stage. Guards spotted him and moved in.
“I’m sorry, ladies and gentleman,” Foster apologized when he could no longer pretend there wasn’t a giant coming for him. “Mr. Cole, I know you’re upset—”
“You don’t know what I am, you son of a bitch,” Wolf said in a low, strangled voice. “We’re missing someone—do you not understand that? A little kid is missing.”
“Believe me, Mr. Cole, I know that. That’s what this entire night is about—finding Maisie and bringing her home safely. When Charlene and I first spoke in Darfur—”
“When you and Charlene first spoke, you’d just raped a fourteen-year-old girl!” Wolf shouted.
Silence descended on the room. The guards approaching Wolf froze for an instant. Reporters had shifted their focus from Foster’s speech to Wolf’s display, something Foster clearly wasn’t pleased about. The congressman’s face went from placid to dangerous calm.
“Those are unforgiveable allegations, Mr. Cole,” Foster said. “They have no place in this hall tonight. Security.” He nodded toward the guards. “Please.”
The largest of the three security guards approached Wolf, who surprisingly didn’t struggle. Foster cleared his throat.
“As I was saying, Charlene and I made a connection from the start—”
There was another commotion, this time in the back of the room. Before Foster could get his bearings to continue, someone in the crowd shouted, “Gun!”
There was a scream.
The three guards with Wolf drew their weapons. Chaos descended on the room. I pushed Solomon to the floor, taking in the scene in a flash-frozen glance: Wolf on the floor with a security guard’s knee in his back; guests rushing for the door; Thibodeau running toward the stage with his own weapon drawn... And Foster, standing center stage with eyes wide.
All of this was taken in over the space of an instant. Not more than a half-second could have passed before the gunshot sounded. I went down on top of Solomon, my body shielding her small frame. The last thing I saw before I ducked my head was Councilman Davies at the back of the room—his face sheet-white, a pistol held in his shaking hand.
There was another scream. Another shot. I kept my body on top of Solomon’s, heart pounding, and lifted my head.
Guests were still rushing the doors, security trying in vain to stop them. Two cops still had Wolf on the ground. Foster lay on the ground, his head a bloodied mass, while Thibodeau knelt beside him.
Davies was nowhere in sight.
Chapter 27
I got a call from Alice five minutes after the news broke of Foster’s death, telling Solomon and me to get our asses into the office as soon as we were free.
It was eleven o’clock when we got to the Ledger that night. Buzz was at his desk, though last I’d known he wasn’t supposed to be out of the hospital until the next day. The bandage was still around his neck, and his attention was fixed on the computer Alice had gotten to replace the one Elias had broken. Alice stood behind him, reading over his shoulder.
“What have you got for us?” he asked without looking up. He looked like death, his voice barely a rasp.
“Why the hell are you here?” Solomon asked.
“Because I’m a grown man and it’s my paper. Now—what have you got?”
Alice shrugged when I looked to her, her meaning clear: Resistance is futile.
“Cops are going through Foster’s shit, and they’ll hopefully
find the link we’re looking for to him hiring Elias. Not that it does much good now,” I said. “Still no sign of Davies, though.”
“And Maisie?” he asked.
“Cops are looking through both Foster’s and Davies’ properties, but so far nothing. Davies’ wife swears she doesn’t know where the kid is, and apparently had no clue any of this went down in Darfur.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve gotten a chance to talk to her?” Buzz said.
“No way—lawyers are already on this thing, they’re handling all the press. Nobody’s getting near her.”
“And as far as you know, no one has a clue where to find Davies,” Alice said.
“No, and time’s winding down. According to the ritual, the last victim will be sacrificed by midnight tomorrow night. They’ve got twenty-four hours to find her. If Davies is, in fact, the one who has her.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Solomon asked. “You don’t think it was him now?”
“I didn’t say that,” I said. “The cancer, his knowledge of the rituals, his links to Sudan and the Dsenganis... It all adds up. But we don’t have any actual proof of any of this.”
“Proof is for the cops,” Buzz said. “We report responsibly, but we’re not a court of law. So with all that in mind, what have you got for me for Thursday?”
“We’ve got the first-person piece I wrote up on Lisette and my kidnapping,” I said. “I’ll double-check one more time to make sure I can confidently say Foster was the one behind that.”
“That’s our front page—above the fold,” Buzz said with a nod. “Everyone else out there will have worked the angle of Foster’s death by the time we hit stands Thursday morning. We’ve got the profile pieces on Charlene and Jacob?”
“Charlene’s is written, I just need to pull a couple of things together on Jacob,” Solomon said.
“Good. Then you two get on the horn or behind the wheel, do whatever you need to do. Next thing we need is some quotes for the Davies’ angle, and maybe an in-depth piece on Foster.”
“With the ugly or without?” I asked.