Winner Take All

by T. Davis Bunn

  He gave an utterly boyish grin. “Most excellent.”

  When they stepped off the escalator, he shifted her carry-on to his other shoulder, and found great delight in how she refused to release his arm. “Please, you will take my card and you will call me the minute you know when you are next coming to Düsseldorf.”

  “We better hurry, I’ve just heard them call my flight.”

  “This is as far as I can go, I fear. Only ticketed passengers can cross through customs.” He gave a stiff-backed bow and kissed her hand. “Such a pleasure you cannot imagine.”

  She took back her hand and her carry-on, gave her passport to the customs official, then returned the man’s wave. Her last glimpse was of the stalker, slipping past on her own floor now, not even looking her way. She carried his odor to the plane.

  CHAPTER

  ———

  31

  THE FRIDAY MORNING PAPER had Omar Dell’s byline on the front page. His article took a very hard stance against Dale Steadman’s firing and the company’s immediate rollback of Dale’s changes. Marcus stopped reading when he came to his own name. He dressed and headed out just as Deacon’s paint-spattered truck pulled into the drive. Today he managed a wave, nothing more.

  Dale’s corporate apartment was located outside the neighboring village of Louisburg. His was an end unit with views over windswept lakes. Two dozen baby goslings scattered at Marcus’ approach, moving like ungainly fluffballs while their nannies raised long necks and marked his passage.

  Steadman met him at the door with a pair of folded shirts in one hand and no sign of welcome. “I was packing.”

  “Need a hand?”

  “No, and I’m still sober. Which is why you stopped by, isn’t it?”

  But he stepped away from the door, permitting Marcus entry. The apartment was large and sunlit and sterile. Dale returned to the trio of half-packed cases sprawled over the sofas. “Coffee’s old but hot.”

  “I’m fine, thanks.” Marcus shut the door behind him. “Actually, I’m on my way to court to formally request a warrant be served when Erin arrives in New York.”

  “Last night I received a call from Erin’s manager. The concert is Tuesday night. She’s agreed to come down Monday after the final rehearsal. But only if we don’t hassle her.”

  “She’s coming to North Carolina?”

  Dale caught Marcus’ skepticism. “You told me yourself, this case won’t bring Celeste home.”

  “An arrest warrant is our best way of pressuring her.” He realized Dale was not listening. “At least let me go ahead and file the paperwork.”

  “Do I need to come with you?”

  “Not really. This is a formality handled in the judge’s chambers.”

  “I’ll skip it then.” Dale dumped the shirts, then stood with hands dangling. “What do a pair of guys do when they don’t drink?”

  Marcus glanced at his watch. Just gone eight and the guy was thirsty. “They talk.”

  Steadman disappeared into the bedroom. He was gone so long Marcus finally rose and walked over. A cabinet drawer had been upended onto the bed. Dale stood over the pile, staring down at a framed picture. Marcus did not need to see what he inspected. There was a new corrugation to Dale’s features, a settling into lines of such intensity Marcus felt the pain in his own gut. “You know about my own kids.”

  Steadman dropped the photograph facedown onto the bed, gave a single nod.

  “It took me almost two years to unpack their photograph. You don’t have to tell me a thing if you don’t want to. But if you need to talk, I’m ready to listen.”

  The pain emerged further, creasing his features, wracking his voice. “Marcus, tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

  “One step at a time. It’s the only thing that’s ever worked for me.”

  The man’s loss was a fiercely bonding current. “Why don’t you finish up here, and let’s meet up for dinner at the Angus Barn. That sound okay?”

  As he let himself out the front door, Dale was still standing there, staring at the back of the photograph.

  When Marcus knocked on the door of Rachel Sears’ chambers, the diminutive judge looked up and showed him genuine distaste. “What is it now?”

  “I’m sorry, your honor. I just thought—”

  A voice behind him called out, “You can’t possibly be trying an end run around me and my client.”

  Marcus turned to find Hamper Caisse striding toward him. The lanky attorney declared, “You’re gonna have to go a lot further than this to catch me napping.”

  Judge Sears aimed her ire at Hamper. “Would you happen to know where your client is today, Mr. Caisse?”

  “I would indeed, your honor. On her way to New York.” He cocked a thumb at Marcus. “Which is why he’s sniffing around your chambers, hoping for a bone.”

  “I just wanted a slot on your sheet this morning to request a subpoena,” Marcus corrected. “But I’ll save the rest for court.”

  “No, you absolutely will not. Under no circumstances am I going to permit you two to wreak havoc with my schedule twice in one week.” She raised her voice another notch. “Martha!”

  A laconic voice called back, “She’s gone down for your mail.”

  “See if you can borrow a court reporter from somewhere, please.” She directed them into the seats opposite her desk. “Two minutes, Marcus. Two.”

  “Your honor, I learned yesterday evening that Erin Brandt is traveling to America. I wanted to request that you issue a warrant for her arrest. You have already found her in contempt.” He spread his hands. “This should be a formality. I intend to serve the order in a New York court and request that they arrest her. That’s it.”

  “Seems straightforward enough. Mr. Caisse?”

  “There’s nothing straightforward about this, your honor. Next week she sings in the gala charity event to aid children with cancer. My client was asked at the last minute to take the place of a star who’s fallen ill. This is a function to which she is not only giving her time and her talents, but she is paying her way over. And she has agreed, your honor, to come down to North Carolina first thing Monday.”

  Marcus protested, “Your honor, I seriously doubt that this woman is ever going to show.”

  “May I remind you who we’re talking about here. This is Erin Brandt’s own child, your honor. Obviously it means the world to her.”

  “She,” Marcus corrected.

  “What?”

  “The child. She’s a little girl by the name of Celeste. Not an it.”

  Hamper dismissed him with an angry wave. “This is just the sort of tantrum you had to censure him over yesterday, your honor. You see what I have to deal with here?”

  Judge Sears demanded, “You’re telling me your client is actually going to show up this time?”

  “She’s not going to walk into this courthouse, your honor. She’s going to run in. I’ll stake my reputation on this.”

  “Your reputation,” Marcus repeated.

  “I spoke with her before she boarded the plane for New York, your honor. She’s given me her word. And now I’m giving you my word. Come Monday, Erin Brandt will be here.”

  The ring was muffled by the clothes he had piled on the side table. Dale scrambled and unearthed the phone on the fifth ring. “Hello?”

  “Is this Dale Steadman?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Mr. Steadman, this is Cheryl Sampers at Lincoln Center. How are you today?”

  The woman was pure New York art world—brisk, pressing, and with a nasal Bryn Mawr superiority. “Fine.”

  “I was asked to call and pass on a message from Ms. Erin Brandt.”

  “Why isn’t she capable of phoning me herself?”

  The woman did not care for his tone. “I didn’t speak with her personally, but I imagine it’s because they’re running late. The rehearsals were held up because of some work they had to do on the stage. Ms. Brandt asks if you can come up to New York.”

&
nbsp; “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “That’s what the message says. I was to call and ask if you could please fly to New York today. On the next available flight. Ms. Brandt needs to speak with you urgently, but will be unable to make the journey to North Carolina because of changes to the rehearsals. And she’s been invited to sing next week in Paris so she can’t come down after the benefit.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Ms. Brandt went to the trouble to check on the flight schedule. There’s a plane leaving in about an hour and she asks if you can possibly make it. If so, I’m to arrange for a limo to pick you up at the airport and bring you straight here.”

  Dale knew Marcus would forbid him to do this. The whole thing stank of Erin’s maneuverings. But the court case would not bring his baby home. He could see it on everyone’s faces, smell it in the air. They were all just going through the motions, dancing to a legal tune that satisfied no one.

  “Sir? Mr. Steadman?”

  Dale felt burdened by years of unexpected blows. “Give me the travel details.”

  When the phone rang, Kirsten had no idea where she was, or why the noise would not stop. Or why, when she began fumbling, the phone was on the wrong side of the bed. “Yes?”

  “Hi.”

  When Kirsten rolled over in bed, it felt as though her brain spun in the other direction. “Marcus?”

  “You were asleep. I’m sorry.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost five.”

  She could not get her mind to work. Everything was dark, save for a perpendicular line of light at one end of the room and a horizontal one at the other. “Which five is that?”

  “Five o’clock Friday afternoon.” His voice held a hint of laughter now. “You sound absolutely delightful when you’re sleepy.”

  “I feel like I was in a coma.” Kirsten slid her feet to the floor. “How did you get this number?”

  “You called me.”

  “I did?”

  “When you got in. You said you were very tired.”

  “I don’t remember a thing.”

  “Did you have a rough flight?”

  “Crowded. A baby cried the whole way. Just a minute.” She walked to the window and swept back the curtains. Her room was low down within the city’s caverns, so her only sunlight was reflected off the building opposite. Traffic noise invaded with the light. As she walked back over she recalled that she had dreamed of sirens and horns all night. “I’m back.”

  “Should I call you later?”

  “No. I need to get started.”

  “Actually, you don’t. I’ve just come back from court. Her lawyer claims Erin has promised to come down Monday.”

  “To Raleigh?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  She needed to be awake for this. She scrubbed her head, willing the blood to start flowing to her brain again. “She won’t come.”

  “No. I don’t think she will.”

  “It’s wrong to stop this. We’ve got momentum. She’s worried.” When Marcus said nothing, she added, “I know all about keeping secrets from the world. You never bother to hide strengths.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You hide weaknesses. You hide things you’re terrified might be discovered.”

  Again he was silent. Only this time she realized what it was she had said. It turned her voice feeble as she finished, “I think I should keep looking.”

  But Marcus was not ready to let it go. “I’ll never press you, Kirsten.”

  “You do, though. You push me harder than anything has in my entire life.”

  As usual, he understood her all too well. “I’ll never stop loving you. Never.”

  It was not the words which finally awoke her, but the burning. Her eyes, her chest, her throat, the pit of her stomach, all were caught by a web of constricting flames. “I don’t think we should stop pressing her, Marcus.”

  He released a long breath. “I’ll speak with Dale tonight and see if he’ll agree to let you keep nosing around.”

  CHAPTER

  ———

  32

  DALE WAITED UNTIL the plane was descending into New York’s La Guardia airport to call Marcus’ office, which as hoped was unmanned. He left a terse message and hung up, glad to avoid that encounter.

  Inside La Guardia’s baggage claim, Dale ID’d the driver with his name on the sign, let him take his bag, and headed straight for the limo stand by the southeast entrance. Five minutes into the journey, he was already impatient to depart. Despite all the time he had spent in New York, he had never carved out a sense of identity here. Dale had partially adapted by segmenting the place and focusing upon a parcel small enough to claim as his own. People said the upper east side possessed a more neighborhood feel. His initial forays had suggested nothing but cafés and frou-frou boutiques and young people talking nasal English so fast he could not understand them. His own patch ran from Saks in the south to Lincoln Center in the north and the river to the west. Even crossing 65th Street on his morning jogs in Central Park left him feeling as though he had entered the unknown.

  His thoughts flickered with the sunlight lancing between the compressed buildings. He recalled the night Erin had told him she was pregnant. His response had been automatic; why not marry and make a second home in Wilmington? Dale could not say which of her assents had astonished him more.

  Almost immediately had come signs that things would not work out. Her insistence on a secret ceremony at the city registry had been bitterly disappointing. He had wanted the world to know of his joy; she had sought no publicity at all. Then there had come the planning of their home. On the good days she would sit in his lap or curl up at his feet while he described his plans for her music room and the adjoining thousand-square-foot bayside parlor. The two chambers were interconnected by massive hand-carved sliding doors, in hopes she would give at-home performances. The walls that were not glass had paneling of African rosewood, the same wood used throughout the Met’s auditorium and reputedly the finest acoustic material in the world. Handworked baffles decorated the seventeen-foot-high ceilings. A Bösendorfer grand dominated the music room, with a professional sound system climbing the back wall. Only the finest was good enough for Erin. This was to be her palatial retreat from the rigors of stardom’s road. Yet whenever he tried to share his dream with Erin, she showed a complaisant surprise over his passion. Are you always so focused, so driven, she asked time and again. As though only in such moments did she even bother to notice.

  Then Celeste had been born. And his world had been canted on its axis by the discovery that he could love anything more than Erin.

  The day they had come home from the hospital, there had been a vital sign so poignant not even Dale in his stupefying overdose of ardor could ignore it. The hospital had refused to release either mother or child until the baby had been named and registered on the birth certificate. Erin had been seated in her wheelchair, still weak from the sixteen-hour delivery. She had turned her face away from his quiet entreaties to help name their child. So Dale had told the hospital staffer to write down the name Celeste, for his two stars.

  Now, as the limo turned off Columbus onto the raised Lincoln Center drive, Dale sought to convince himself that it was a sign of age and faulty memory that he could never recall hearing Erin refer to her daughter by name.

  Lincoln Center contained seven buildings housing twelve theaters, making it the largest artistic complex in the world. From where he exited the limo, the Met rose directly beyond the plaza’s central fountain, with the City Opera to his left and Avery Fisher Hall to his right. In the right rear corner, beyond the smaller building housing the two nonorchestral theaters, stood the footbridge spanning the subterranean cavern of 65th Street. On its other side rose the Juilliard School of Music and two further halls for small symphonic and chamber concerts. Workers were busy hauling up a new banner that stretched the entire way across the front of Avery Fisher Hall, procla
iming that Erin Brandt would star in the benefit concert for the children’s cancer hospital that Tuesday.

  To Dale’s mind, Lincoln Center represented the nadir of postmodern architecture—designed with too much flair, refashioned by committee, underfinanced with city money. In the daylight the resulting structural breaches and architectural mistakes were all too evident. At night, however, the tall glass walls gave off their magnetic glow. The chandeliers radiated like giant diamond pendants. A train of limos pulled into the long drive off Broadway and emitted a constant stream of fine garb and gab. The central fountain splashed a rainbow, the jewels glinted and shone, the excitement was a feast shared by all. Everything worked to extend the performance’s magic beyond the stage.

  Dale debated momentarily whether to try the stage entrance. Security at Lincoln Center was notoriously tight. Even in their best times Erin had regularly forgotten to leave his name with the guard. But if possible he would prefer not to have any public discussion with Erin. She played to whichever audience was around. It was in her genes.

  Dale paused long enough for a glance at the Met, his favorite opera house in all the world. Through the front wall of pillared glass he could make out the two Chagall hangings and the starburst chandeliers of Bohemian crystal. For months after Erin ran away to Paris, he had tried to convince himself that things would have been different had she only received the invitation she deserved. But the afternoon light was too great, the summer heat too oppressive, and his interior baggage too heavy to cart around such lies any longer.

  He walked parallel to where Columbus and Broadway joined just north of the center, then turned left and descended 65th Street’s gentle slope. He recognized the huge black guard doing sentry duty outside the stage entrance, but could not remember his name. There was clearly some recognition on the guard’s part, for he nodded a greeting and held open the door.

  The white guard stationed behind the security desk looked planted permanently in his seat, there so long his entire body had been pulled down by gravity to puddle around his chair. “Help you?”