'I'll let you get back to sleep now,' he said softly. 'I just had to tell you the news.'
'Okay, Hunt,' she said. 'I know it will work out for the best.' Suddenly, she realized it wasn't Joan Crawford on the television at all, but Faye Dunaway playing Crawford. Mommie Dearest.
'And Dorothy-Anne?' he said.
'Yes?'
'I love you,' he said tenderly.
Dorothy-Anne felt the tears threatening to come now, and she couldn't trust herself to speak.
After a moment, Hunt said, 'Good night, Dorothy-Anne.'
' 'Night, Hunt,' she whispered, and hung up the telephone.
And thought: I love you, too.
57
The party had begun.
Golden Gate Park was closed to through traffic from Cross Over Drive to Middle Drive East, and from John F. Kennedy Drive to Martin Luther King Drive. The only vehicles allowed access were the limousines and luxury cars bearing the formally attired guests, who had dished out anywhere from one hundred tax-deductible dollars per person for cocktails and dancing to twenty-five thousand dollars for a dinner table seating ten.
They alighted from their horseless carriages in front of the De Young Museum, the women in gowns and the gentlemen in black tie. Their limousines were directed to a parking area; the self-driven cars were turned over to valets.
Inevitably, the guests gasped in delight. For here, opposite the museum, the Music Concourse had sprouted a veritable Camelot of enchanted, open-sided tents with scalloped edges, raised wooden floors, and outdoor heaters. Inside each tent, airy chandeliers were swagged with garlands of fresh roses. And all around, as far as the eye could see, Tivoli lights glittered magically, made electrical bowers out of trees and shrubs and floral arbors.
There were tents for dancing, tents for dining, a separate tent for the caterers, another for coat check, and one for the chamber orchestra, whose strains of Vivaldi greeted the arrivals. Later, once the party was in full swing, the chamber musicians would exchange places with the dance band.
As chairperson of the event, Althea Netherland Winslow had been the first to arrive. She was wearing Dior, a bare-shouldered ballgown the precise shade of old-fashioned, dusty pink roses, with a simple silk bodice and a richly flaring skirt made of some fifty layers of overlapping, hand crafted lace.
Thus resplendent, she glided ornately among the tents, her seasoned perfectionist's eye ceaselessly on the lookout for the slightest flaw. She found countless faults, true, but saw to it that they were instantly rectified.
The turnout exceeded Althea's wildest expectations. This fund-raiser alone had raised in excess of one and a half million much needed dollars for the earthquake-damaged museum.
And so on this, her triumphant evening, Althea floated among the perfume-fragrant tides and eddies and whirlpools of the rich, the famous, the powerful, and the social climbing.
She was in her element, as always the center of the social universe, the guiding light who provided the gravitational pull for all the lesser planets and satellites. And, pro that she was, she graciously received the flattery that was her due, taking secret pleasure from every compliment, but dismissing them all with an airy, well-practiced gesture that indicated it was 'nothing, nothing, darling, really,' while the polished lump of diamond on her finger scintillated in the lights.
Yes, Althea allowed, this is definitely an evening to remember.
Which was why she had selected a few hand-picked photographers to record this party for posterity. W, Town and Country, and Vanity Fair were represented, along with a video team from the local ABC affiliate.
She thought: This is one party that won't be forgotten.
It was a thought she would soon regret.
Christos lay in wait. In the dark, under the ground sweeping boughs of a giant juniper. Beyond the reach of all those dazzling lights.
He was wearing a bulky black sweat suit, size XX, but underneath it he had on a rented tux. The idea being, after he picked off his targets, there'd be turmoil and panic, people scattering in all directions, during which he'd do a Superman-Clark Kent number and lose himself among the likewise attired guests.
At least, that was the plan.
Beside him, the cello case was open, its lid folded back. Inside it, the Remington 700 was ready to be snatched up at a moment's notice. He'd prefocused the Unertl 10X scope so he'd have a clear view of the main tent, the one where a microphone stand had been set up.
He'd chosen this spot, back a ways and off to one side of the California Academy of Sciences, expressly for its location, this building and the De Young facing each other across the wide expanse of the Music Concourse. The entire area in between was lit up like a shooting gallery.
For the hundredth time, Christos ran through his mental checklist:
The Remington was loaded; weapon, bullets, and cello case wiped clean of prints.
The carbine and case were expendable; so was the sweat suit. When he was done he'd strip, leave everything here, and walk away in black tie—real cool, the way James Bond might do it.
He was wearing surgical gloves. The only thing he had to remember was to strip them off and pocket them.
The Tercel, keys in the ignition, was hidden in a stand of bushes near Middle Drive East. It, too, had been carefully wiped clean, inside and out. Besides, he planned to use the car only as a last resort.
In the meantime, all he could do was wait. Lie here patiently until he could pick off the two of them—mother and son—bam bam, like that.
He was as prepared as he'd ever be . . . and glad he'd spent hours poring over the photographs Gloria had shown him of her husband and mother-in-law, so he could memorize what they looked like.
But shit and goddamn.
Wouldn't you know it? The more people that arrived, dressed up the way they were, the less you could tell one apart from another. The only reason he recognized the mother-in-law was because she arrived early, playing inspector general. And that Cinderella gown she was wearing was good: all those layers of lace on the skirt helped to make her stand out in the crowd.
But the husband, Hunt Winslow, was a lot harder to pick out. Especially now, with people packing the Music Concourse, the men all looking like penguins. As identical as nuns back in the old days, when they still had to wear wimples and veils.
Fortunately, Gloria had foreseen this problem. At some point, she was going to parade along the edge of the crowd with her husband. The way she planned it, she'd be carrying a glass of something—champagne or vodka or water, whatever—and 'accidentally' drop it. Then go into a big production of wiping stains off the front of her dress, that being the signal the man was her husband.
Gloria had also shown him a fashion magazine, pointing to a model in the exact same dress she'd be wearing, a knee-length number made of orange and yellow and green feathers in a pattern, like she was a goddamn bird.
Looking at it, Christos said, 'You wear it to bed, it would be like fuckin' a chicken.'
To which Gloria responded, 'That is an Yves St. Laurent.' Pronouncing it Eve Saw Law-raw.
Christos pulled back the sleeve of his sweatshirt and pressed a button on his watch. Green LED numbers glowed brightly: 8:27.
He figured it was time for another look-see, find out what was happening. . . .
He picked up the carbine and squinted through the scope.
The distant, brightly lit people sprang into sharp focus, the magnification making him feel uneasy and vulnerable, as if he was right out there, face-to-face with everybody.
Taking his time, he swept the scope from left to right, slowly scanning the crowd. Then suddenly did a double take, quickly backtracking a couple of yards.
The fuck—?
What he saw was Gloria in that bird dress, the one she'd showed him in a magazine. Walking along the perimeter of the crowd, drink in hand, a tall, good-looking guy on her left.
Okay, that was the way they'd planned it. But what wasn't okay, what they hadn't planned, was
the old buzzard in the Cinderella gown tagging along.
Shitfire and shinola!
Christos gnashed his teeth. Gloria wasn't supposed to lure them both into view. Just the husband . . .
As he watched, Gloria pretended to stumble. The glass flew out of her hand. When she regained her equilibrium, she looked down at herself with what appeared to be genuine consternation. Quickly she began brushing ineffectually at the feathers, making a big female to-do out of it.
Christos was in a pickle, unsure as to how to play this.
Does Gloria know something I don't? he wondered. Is that why she's deviating from the script? Could it be the old broad's getting set to leave early?
Maybe that's why Gloria had dragged her along. Because this was the only chance he'd get to take out the both of them, mother and son. Yeah, it could very well be . . .
His finger sought the smooth, cool curve of the trigger.
But how was he supposed to guess? Christ Almighty. This wasn't the way they'd planned for it to go down.
Was he supposed to shoot them now—or what?
C'mon, Glo, he projected. C'mon. Give me some kinda . . .
. . . sign, Gloria thought. That's what I have to do. Signal Christos and let him know it's got to be now.
Too late, she wished they'd worked out a variety of signals. They'd talked about it, but decided it was best to keep everything simple; the less complicated things were, the better.
One snag. Reality had a tendency of never being simple.
According to plan, it was supposed to go like this: once the dinner guests were seated, but before the food was served, Althea would take the microphone and thank the guests for the million and a half they'd helped raise for a good cause, blah-blah-blah. Then she'd call Hunt up on the dais. They'd josh a little, mother and son sharing a few society in-jokes, in the process drawing attention to the key people who had helped this event come about.
That had been the plan.
Hunt, unfortunately, had derailed it at the last minute.
It had been his bright idea—goddamn him!—that Althea substitute Governor Randle in his stead, thus giving his mother and future father- in-law the opportunity to announce their upcoming nuptials. The change was crucial in that it meant Althea and Hunt weren't going to be sharing the stage; weren't going to be standing side by side in the line of fire.
Having to do some quick improv, Gloria had drawn Hunt and Althea aside, hinting she had something important to tell them . . . in private. Could they take a little walk and hear her out?
Now here they were, Althea saying, 'Really, Gloria. Your dress is fine. I don't see a single drop of liquid. If you'll just tell us what it is you wanted to say?'
Gloria fought down a wave of panic. I have to get my message across to Christos, she thought desperately. But what if he isn't looking? What if his eyes are trained elsewhere? What then?
Despite all the glittering lights, the mass of people, the voices competing with the music, the hired waiters circulating with trays, Gloria suddenly had the most peculiar sensation. It was as if she, Hunt, and Althea had crossed into a different dimension, one in which they were invisible to everyone but Christos, and where no one else existed . . . which was how she overlooked the security detail, two moonlighting cops in black tie, strolling toward them.
Turning in the direction where Christos was hidden, she put a hand over her heart, then made a gun with her fingers. Praying he'd interpret it correctly. Thinking: Come on, come on! Why don't you—
—shoot. Yeah, that's what she was trying to tell him. Christos sure of it now.
Atta baby . . .
Concentrating on lining up the husband in his sights, he swiftly swung the barrel over to the mother, then back at the husband again. A two-second practice drill, everything reduced to such a tight visual frame that he didn't notice the approaching security detail either.
Steady, Christos told himself. Steady . . .
And holding the husband in his crosshairs, he gently squeezed the trigger two times.
The rifle cracked and flashed twice, spitting spent brass and lighting up the shrubbery, the recoil kicking hard into his shoulder.
Both bullets found their target. The first slammed the husband backward through the air, arms flailing; the second whirled him around. Then, eyes wide with surprise, his legs gave out from under him and he collapsed like a grotesque puppet.
All right! One down, one to go . . .
Christos swung the barrel over to where the mother had been, but she'd moved, dammit!
Where . . . where . . . ?
And then suddenly all hell broke loose.
58
The sunset was a Hudson River School painting when Dorothy- Anne, Liz, and Fred cantered the yearlings back to Meadowlake Farm. The air had turned decidedly chill, and the yearlings Freddie had bought as their Christmas presents were gleaming with sweat and snorting plumes of vapor.
Dorothy-Anne pulled on the reins and looked back over her shoulder.
Simon Riley, the head groom, was following at a sedate trot. He was on Daddy's Girl, with Zack seated in front of him, the little boy's face flushed with excitement. Zack, naturally, trying his best to urge the horse on, kicking and bouncing around and yelling, 'Giddy-yap! Giddy-yap!', while Simon held onto him and kept the thoroughbred reined in.
Dorothy-Anne smiled to herself. What a perfect weekend it's turned out to be, she thought, savoring the cold, moist, fresh country air. We haven't been coming up here nearly enough.
By the time they crested the hill, the sky was nearly as dark as the purple spines and ridges of the distant Catskills behind them. In front of them, lights glowed warmly in the windows of the big white eyebrow Colonial and in the lanterns on the white wooden lampposts in the yard.
As they returned to the stables, Venetia, who was not fond of horses, and who refused to ride, was out in the yard, waiting to intercept them. One look at her face in the lamplight, and Dorothy-Anne could tell that something was terribly wrong.
'Venetia?' she asked softly, dismounting at once.
'Oh, honey.' Venetia's voice was mournful.
'Venetia!' Dorothy-Anne clutched her by the arms. 'What is it?'
'It has been all over the news.'
'What has? Don't tell me there's been another outbreak?'
'No, baby. It's Hunt. He . . . he has been shot.'
Dorothy-Anne froze, rocked by the news. She stared at Venetia, her heart beating wildly.
Hunt? Shot?
'Nooooo .. .' she groaned aloud, recoiling as though from a snake. Dorothy-Anne felt the ground give way; the glowing lanterns starting to spin around her like some crazy Tilt-A-Whirl. She shut her eyes against the vertigo, and Venetia quickly reached out and held her. After a moment, the worst of the dizziness passed. Dorothy-Anne opened her eyes and pulled back. She looked at her friend questioningly.
'Is he—?' Dorothy-Anne could not put her fear into words.
'I don't know, honey,' Venetia said gravely. 'EMS rushed him to emergency. That is all I know. The last time I called, all the hospital would say is that he is in critical condition.'
'Which hospital?' she asked shakily.
'California Pacific Medical Center.'
Dorothy-Anne flinched and rubbed her face. She had the terrible sensation of history repeating itself. Her head swirled with fragmented memories. Her own recent stay at that very same hospital was still all too fresh in her mind.
Am I cursed? she wondered. Is everyone whose life I touch doomed?
Finally she drew a deep breath. 'I . . . I need the plane,' she said. 'Have them bring it to Albany.'
'It's already on its way. I figured you would want to fly out there.'
'Yes . . . I . . . I've got to go now. Call the plane, tell them I'll be waiting at Albany airport. You'll see to it that the kids don't give Nanny a hard time?'
'Honey, maybe I should come along?'
Dorothy-Anne shook her head. 'I appreciate the offer, really
I do, but not this time.'
I want to be alone, she thought. I need to be alone.
'Let me at least drive you to the airport,' Venetia said.
But Dorothy-Anne wasn't listening. She was already running to the garage.
Please, God, she prayed, backing a Jeep Cherokee out in a spray of gravel. You're not playing fair! You already took Freddie from me. You can't take Hunt too!
An hour and a half later, Dorothy-Anne was over Lake Ontario on Hale One, headed for San Francisco.
59
The riverboat was new, but it would not last the night.
With beautifully varnished wood that gave it the appearance of some artifact from a colonial past, the boat had been styled to look like a turn-of-the-century Indo-Chinese river yacht. But the hundred- and-fourteen-foot Jayavarman had actually just been built, and this was its inaugural cruise. It had been intended for three-day luxury cruises on the Mekong River.
Two decks rose above its hull. On the lower one were eight cabins, all with a private bathroom and big outside windows. They each had a double bed built into a corner and decorated with intricate fretwork to resemble Chinese opium beds. At one end of the deck was a spacious dining room. The upper deck was large and entirely open. It was ideal for enjoying a view of the jungle that lined both banks of the Mekong River in this part of Laos. Travelers could rest in comfortable chairs and on daybeds, perhaps sipping a drink, with a view that was unobstructed by the sheer but effective mosquito netting that hung from the deck's roof, when needed.
But this evening's visitors onboard the Jayavarman weren't interested in the Mekong River or the pristine jungle in this part of Laos. The Mekong's palm-lined shores and the thatch-roofed villages that occasionally sprang into sight held no fascination for them.
They had come from various directions and at different times discreetly to board the boat at Pakse, in southern Laos. Some flew in from Vientiane, others from Bangkok or Ubon Ratchathani.
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