Winner Take All

by T. Davis Bunn

  Fragments of old dreams rose from the coffin of repressed memories. They gathered with images from more recent times and danced to the painkiller’s macabre tune. Hours passed, perhaps aeons. He heard Charlie voice the dreaded question yet again: What did his heart say he should do about Kirsten? Then the dream shifted and the boat exploded yet again. Instead of the flash of flames and blackening agony, however, Marcus was battered by loss so potent it flung him back into reality.

  Marcus awoke to the sound of that single keening echo. He focused on where Kirsten stood by his bed and reached for her hand. There was no need to ask about Charlie Hayes. Her expression contained all the sad tidings he could bear at that moment.

  Deacon stood at the foot of his bed. Dale Steadman hovered by the door, as though uncertain whether he was welcome to the gathering. Marcus lay and waited while the doctor was called. When the doctor ordered them all to leave, Marcus refused to release Kirsten’s hand. The act of awakening had only cemented his certainty. He had to let Kirsten go. If he could not do it for himself, he would make it a final atoning memorial to the friend who was no more.

  After the doctor pronounced him in need of little more than a night’s rest, Marcus again spoke to the police. This took less than a dozen minutes, as there was little to describe beyond a flash and a bang and a dive.

  Marcus then directed Kirsten to bring the others back. He asked Dale, “Who blew up the boat?”

  “My vote has to go for some of the folks I’m trying to roust over at New Horizons. They’re an entrenched group, and don’t think highly of what I intend to do.”

  “Which is?”

  “Change things,” Dale replied. “Stir things up.”

  Marcus listened hard as he could, but detected neither guile nor subterfuge nor motive. “You need to meet me Tuesday for court. Eight-thirty sharp. We need to have the judge see with her own eyes just exactly who you are.”

  “You’re flat on your back, near about blown to smithereens,” Dale pointed out.

  “Either we show up for court Tuesday,” Marcus replied, “or your ex gets the kid.”

  “Didn’t I tell you now,” Deacon said to the room. “We got us a warrior here for the good and the just.”

  “If we can find witnesses to refute the testimony against you, the judge will probably issue an ex partae order.” Marcus reached for the water by his bed. The motion raised a chorus of complaints from his body. He drained the cup, then said, “But Erin Brandt won’t be coming back to America. Will she?”

  A light gleamed in the dark recesses of Dale’s gaze. “Probably not.”

  “In that case, we need to show the judge documented evidence of your ex-wife receiving the order, then refusing to attend the hearing or return the child.” Marcus stretched his back and neck, a test of will as much as muscle. “We’ll serve the court papers in London. She will be out of her comfort zone and vulnerable.”

  “About those references. You need to avoid anyone who’s grown fat off the status quo. Which means they’ll probably be reluctant to miss a day’s work and drive to Raleigh to testify.”

  Sleep’s gentle lyrics drifted with the scent of hospital chemicals. Marcus looked down to the hand he still held. Kirsten’s fingers were long and delicate and tipped with nails painted the color of live coral. The thought he might never hold her again filled his chest with fires of eternal regret. But Charlie had been right to ask his dreaded question. There was no choice but to give her what she most desired. Otherwise she would wrest it from him. And in so doing she would sever any chance they had for a future together.

  Though it cut him with a force far stronger than the explosion he had just survived, he said, “I need you to go to London to serve the papers on Erin Brandt.”

  His words embedded themselves gradually. “What?”

  “Take tomorrow’s first flight. Locate a detective and have him ready to make the handover as soon as the papers arrive. That is, assuming we win the second round in court Tuesday.”

  “But … I can’t.”

  “This is important, Kirsten. Vital. I’ll overnight you a copy of the ex partae order. Be sure the handover is caught on tape. We may need this evidence in court.” When she wrenched her hand free, he did not have the strength to recapture it. “If we have any indication Erin is not going to show up in court, you need to follow her back to Germany. Be ready to supply documented evidence that she isn’t complying with the court order.”

  Kirsten careened off the end of the bed and across the room.

  Marcus said, “We both know you need to go.”

  She searched blindly for a door handle she could not find. Dale finally opened the door and ushered her out.

  Deacon stared at the door and murmured, “Lady’s got some ghosts screaming at her, sure to goodness.”

  Her absence was a sudden vacuum. “Somebody needs to get Charlie home.”

  Deacon’s gaze contained such sorrow Marcus had to turn away. “Listen to you. Flat on your back, eyes drifting in the wind, and still you got to worry about all the blessed world.”

  Strange how the pain could reach him, even though fatigue gummed his words. “If we don’t find some witnesses willing to speak on Dale’s behalf, we’re doomed.”

  “You just hush and rest now.” Deacon’s gentle bass sounded in harmony to slumber’s symphony. “I’ll see if I can’t help the gentleman come up with something.”

  CHAPTER

  ———

  14

  MONDAY MORNING Marcus awoke to find that Charlie’s family had already come and gone. He could not decide whether this was a blessing or yet another wound to his lacerated spirit. Dale had driven back to Raleigh with Kirsten, there to see if he could stir up answers. Deacon helped him through the torment of rising and preparing for departure. Marcus called his office, assured Netty that he had all his bits and pieces intact, and pretended he had not hoped for word from Kirsten.

  The hospital checkout required over an hour and much of Marcus’ strength. The doctor pronounced him as fit as anybody he had ever seen who had just been blown up. He let Marcus go with a smile and a pack of Percodan. Marcus resisted the desire to flee into codeine’s sweet embrace, and instead dozed while Deacon drove.

  He opened his eyes to find they had stopped by a red-brick church. A mammoth black gentleman with the eyes of a merry inquisitor greeted Deacon with a long and vigorous embrace. He then turned to where Marcus still sat inside the car and extended his hand. “Reverend Cleve Samson. Deacon here says you’re the young fellow who lit up Motts Channel yesterday.”

  “I’m not feeling so young right now.”

  “I know that’s the truth.” He showed a pastor’s ability to share deepest sorrow with a look, a touch, a very few words. “Charlie Hayes was a saint. His passage leaves a lot of people ’round here feeling much poorer.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Deacon tells me you’re in need of our help.”

  “Not me, but a client.”

  “Any friend of Dale Steadman is a friend of most everybody down this way.” He started toward a massive old town car. “Y’all can follow me, the Biggs don’t live more’n five blocks from here.”

  The Biggs residence was down a tree-lined street, a bastion of peace triangulated by the Wrightsville Beach Highway, the hospital, and the ruins of the old port. Deacon parked behind the reverend’s Lincoln. Together they followed him up the drive.

  A woman in a faded print housedress stood with arms linked beneath her ribs. “Reverend.”

  “Hello, Ida. I believe you know Deacon Wilbur.”

  “Nice to see you again, sir. Welcome to my home.”

  “And this is the gentleman I told you about.”

  Ida Biggs showed Marcus a face shut tight as a vault. “Y’all best come out of the heat.”

  The screened veranda ran the entire back end of the house. Ida’s husband, a clean-shaven gentleman with the tensile strength of a willow, rose to greet them. “Good to have you come ar
ound, Reverend.”

  “How you keeping, Tyrell?”

  “Can’t complain.” He did not wait for the pastor to introduce them. “Deacon Wilbur, as I live and breathe.”

  “Mr. Biggs.”

  “And you must be that lawyer fellow I heard so much about, the one took on New Horizons.”

  “Marcus Glenwood.”

  “Always wanted to shake your hand. Yessir, took on the giants of this world with one little stone, ain’t that right, Reverend?” Tyrell Biggs was dressed in pleated cotton slacks and a coffee-colored shirt, one shade lighter than his skin. “How about I go fix everybody a glass of lemonade. Ida made some up fresh.”

  “Lemonade would be fine, sir. Thank you.”

  “Mr. Glenwood’s got some questions he’d like to ask you about Dale Steadman, Ida.”

  “Don’t see as how I can talk comfortable about what’s gone on inside somebody else’s house.”

  “That’s why we’re here, Ida, me and Deacon both. To tell you this ain’t just right, it’s important. Now sit yourself on down and see if you can help the man help Mr. Steadman.”

  Marcus eased himself into the padded chair. Nothing hurt in an excruciating manner. But all his aches bonded together, forming a fabric that stretched and tugged with every motion. “Actually, I need to ask you about his former wife as much as I do about Dale himself.”

  Tyrell called through the house’s open door, “It’s all about Benjamins with that lady.”

  His wife sniffed. “No it ain’t.”

  “Yessir, all about those Ben Franklins. All about big money.”

  “What you talking about?” Something in her tone suggested Ida Biggs was actually glad her husband was speaking, as it released her from what was probably a tight and constant reserve. “You never worked in that home.”

  “Who’s living with you then? Who’s watched you talk every day ’bout how hard it was to be in the same house with that lady. Who’s heard you fretting day in and day out over the baby being in that lady’s care?”

  Marcus asked, “How long did you work for Mr. Steadman?”

  “A year and some change. Ever since they moved into that house he built her.” But her eyes remained upon her husband, who was going around now with five glasses on a metal tray. “Listen to you talk.”

  “I saw that woman more than I ever wanted to.” He handed his wife a glass, then seated himself beside her. “I watched them have words right there on my doorstep.”

  His wife sipped from her glass. “Mr. Dale is a fine gentleman.”

  “Did I say anything against that man? No I did not. Not one word. I’m talking about the lady.”

  “The lady didn’t care nothing about money.”

  “But she cared about her singing, didn’t she. She cared about her career. That was her pieces of silver.” He leaned back, satisfied. “Tell me I’m not right.”

  “Go turn on the fan so we can get us some air.”

  Tyrell set down his glass and rose from his chair. “Her singing was her obsession. Same sin, different currency. Ain’t that what you say, Reverend?”

  Marcus asked, “You think Erin Brandt kidnapped the child because of her career?”

  “She didn’t do it out of love, I know that much.” Ida Biggs looked straight at him for the first time, and Marcus realized the only reason she was talking to him at all was because of the baby. “One thing I can say for certain about Miz Brandt. She wouldn’t know love if it grew fangs and bit her on the backside.”

  They made two further stops after the visit with Ida Biggs. The meetings proceeded at a country pace, which meant it was almost dark before they finally left Wilmington. Marcus dozed the entire way home. His sleep was never deep enough to dream. Every now and then the mournful note he had heard upon awakening in the hospital drifted through his heart, and he would sense anew the burden of unshed tears.

  When Deacon pulled up in front of the house, Marcus opened his door and eased himself upright. He could not help but watch his front door. He knew Kirsten would not be there, but hoped just the same. “Would you come to court with me tomorrow?”

  “You still plan on taking that lawyer Caisse to task?”

  “You heard what I said to Dale. We don’t have any choice. Ida Biggs might be more comfortable on the stand if you were there to greet her.”

  “Son, I’d rather watch you tear a patch out of that man’s hide than sit ringside at a revival.” Deacon slapped the car into gear. “I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty sharp.”

  Marcus ate a solitary dinner and stretched out on his bed. But the day had already been too full of sleep. He slipped into his clothes and padded back downstairs. Marcus arrived on the porch just as a concert of wind began singing through his pines. He eased himself down in one of the rockers, testing each joint in turn. There was considerable soreness, particularly around his neck and upper shoulders. But other than a general sense of bearing a body-sized bruise and having come far too close to that last cold breath, he was all right.

  The wind’s recital was particularly sweet that night. He rocked in cadence to the tossing branches as thunder’s profound bass filled the hollows of his chest. It seemed to him that Charlie Hayes walked up and settled into the rocker alongside his own. The sensation was so strong Marcus felt a need to say the words aloud, that he was welcome here always.

  Then the first sheet of rain swept in, forming a tight enclosure for all the night’s scents. The magnolia blossoms and bougainvillea sang a perfumed lament. The leaves tapped out the rhythm of absent friends.

  But it was not merely Charlie’s absence that harried him that night. His need to hold Kirsten was a pain that dwarfed his physical discomfort. He ached as well for all she carried. There was no question but that she was judging him through spectacles formed by her past. Marcus sat and rocked and listened to the storm enclose him in his safe little island, and prayed that he could trust her and their love enough to hope she would not only return, but return because she was ready for him. He hoped Charlie Hayes had been right. He hoped he had done the right thing. This time.

  CHAPTER

  ———

  15

  KIRSTEN CAUGHT THE MIDDAY FLIGHT to Washington and a late afternoon plane to London. She was plagued the entire journey by how her life’s rules were being tangled and respun in a web-like script she could not fathom. As she entered Heathrow’s Terminal Three, jet lag hulked in the back of her mind like the onset of a bad cold. She gathered her bags, passed through customs, and headed for the discount hotel counter. From the sparse high-season choices she selected a Best Western within walking distance of Paddington Station. On the express train into London, her jumbled thoughts chopped at the fineness of the sunlit morning with a blade honed from earlier times.

  At Paddington she asked directions from an overfriendly porter and became lost a block from the station entrance. Jet lag and a plague of almost-familiar images pressed in from all sides. The sunlight was brighter than she recalled, the weather warmer. London to her mind was a place of cool nights and misting rain, even in July. By the time she finally found the proper road, the back of her shirt was clamped tightly to her skin.

  The hotel receptionist was a slender Pakistani with soulful eyes and a manner that suggested he tried his wiles with every pretty woman. He pressed the key into her palm, then wrapped his fingers delicately about her wrist, pinning her into his grip. “Madame is being upgraded to one of the most newly renovated and air-conditioned rooms.”

  Kirsten pretended not to notice either his tone or his clutch. “Can you tell me where I can find a good detective?”

  The receptionist’s hand snapped away. “Please?”

  “A detective. A large agency would be better. Someone with an international reputation.”

  “I am certain I do not know.” A film descended over the liquid gaze. “Madame must excuse me now. Other guests are soon to be arriving.”

  Kirsten hefted her own luggage and carried it up the narrow
stairs. Her room was an Edwardian box, high-ceilinged and once probably the side parlor to a grand city house. Now it was carpeted in a depressing plaid, painted a shade somewhere between tan and putrid, and lit by the chandelier’s three remaining bulbs. Kirsten settled upon the bed, pulled out the proper phone book, and looked up the Royal Opera House. Every motion caused the unsprung mattress to sway like a boat entering harbor. As the phone rang she surveyed the room with tired satisfaction. If any place offered a total disconnection from her unwanted past, it was this.

  The phone spoke. “Covent Garden.”

  “I just wanted to ask about a singer performing tonight.”

  “The name?”

  “Erin Brandt.”

  The response came too swiftly for it to have been the first time spoken that day. “Ms. Brandt does not accept any calls. But I am happy to relay a message.”

  “No. No message.” She hung up, took a hard breath, then dialed the number for Marcus’ office. She endured Netty’s recorded message and tersely spelled out her London address. Her hands were shaking as she hunted through her purse for the card from Senator Jacobs’ aide. She dialed the senator’s Raleigh office and left a detailed message, asking for help in locating a London-based detective agency. As she spelled out her requirements, she found herself fighting a losing skirmish with her steadily descending eyelids.

  She was asleep before her head hit the pillow. Familiar dreams rose in what she had hoped would be a sterile room. She danced to a chamber full of strangers, all smiling and waving, all shouting noises that created a screeching cacophonous din. She danced not to a melody, but chaos. The apparitions shouted at her in voices barely below full rage. Though she neither wanted to be there nor understood what they were saying, still she danced, alone and surrounded by enemies disguised with smiles.

  The noise in her dream was so loud, when the phone rang she merely absorbed the sound and danced to that as well. Gradually the wordless clatter receded until the ringing was all she could hear, and the dance dimmed to where she had no choice but to open her eyes.