A Perfect Cover
Page 27
It didn’t.
“I’m grateful to you, Uncle Duran,” I said calmly. “You gave me my parents, my life in America. You gave me choices. Which is why I’m here.”
The spiderwork of purple veins across Uncle Duran’s fleshy cheeks were in stark contrast to the angry flush that touched his face.
“Who are you trying to kid? You came here because you have no proof.”
I laughed, but I doubted he heard any humor in the sound. None was intended.
“You forget,” I said, “that proof is one of the things I do best.”
He simply stared at me.
“The dates that you visited the refugee camps in Thailand are part of the public record. And I remember that you had reporters with you, always, when you visited Songkhla. They took pictures of you holding me. I thought that there must be other pictures, other stories. And I was right. The newspapers and magazines from that era are full of your activities. The great humanitarian. The senator with a heart. And a conscience.”
I paused, but still he had nothing to say. And I tried not to remember how often, as a child, I’d heard his voice on the phone, calling to ask me if I’d received his gift or to congratulate me because I’d gotten good grades. And I tried not to feel pity for this pitiless man.
“The list of dates narrowed my search through immigration records and international adoption agency records. I cross referenced that with lists of men and women employed by government agencies.
“I looked at a lot of lists, Uncle Duran. Fortunately, I have a good memory.”
I leaned over to pick up the briefcase I’d carried in with me. Opened it and pulled out a single sheet of paper. On it, thirteen names.
I put the list on the desk in front of him.
“I haven’t talked to them. And, I’d rather not.”
He shrugged.
“So I helped a few needy Vietnamese kids get jobs. What of it? As you said, I’m the senator with a heart.”
“When I’ve finished interviewing the names on this list, I’ll start looking beyond Vietnam. And I know I’ll find more children just like me, just like Vincent, who were brought in on the coattails of Honorable Senator Duran Reed. From how many of them did you demand an impossibly high price for the American dream?”
Of course, he didn’t answer me.
I hadn’t expected him to.
“What do you want from me?” he said finally.
“Absolutely nothing,” I said. “Except your retirement from public office.”
He leaned forward on his desk, trying to intimidate me, and he reminded me of nothing more than a carrion bird. With its mask torn away.
“You can’t—”
“Oh, yes, Uncle Duran. I can. And if I ever hear even the slightest whisper that you intend to run for President, I’ll send these names to every newspaper in the country.”
Then I turned on my heel, kept my back straight, and walked away.
And I knew that I had just gained a powerful enemy.
Epilogue
I went back to New Orleans.
The late-night flight was uneventful, except that the stewardess assumed that I was nervous about flying. She’d asked me just that after takeoff, her eyes fixed on the many small paper packets that I’d set on the table-tray in front of me. I told her that, in fact, concentrating on sorting tasks worked better for me than medication. Which didn’t seem to reassure her at all.
By the end of the flight, I had cleared the tray and folded it back into its upright position, tucked two quart-size plastic bags back into my carry-on, and discarded a wad of emptied packets into the trash bag that the stewardess had walked through the cabin with. As the passengers exited the airplane, she actually flashed me a nervous smile.
Before I’d left for Washington, I’d promised Beauprix that I would return. But I had made no promises as to when. I had some business I needed to wrap up, I’d told him.
And some thinking to do, I told myself.
He hadn’t asked me for details.
“Damn it, little girl,” he said, “you go and do whatever you have to.”
Then he’d pressed a house key into my hand and briefly taken me into his arms.
In the end, I hadn’t called to tell him I was coming back. I’d simply gotten onto a plane bound for New Orleans.
It was past midnight when I took a taxi to the Beauprix house in the Garden District. This time, I didn’t use the servants’ entrance.
Beauprix had given me permission to let myself in.
“I’m not the kind of cop who sleeps with a gun by his bed,” he’d assured me before I left. “You’re always welcome in my home. Day or night. The guest room is upstairs, first door on the right.” Then he’d paused, adding, “You already know where my room is.” And his voice had been husky with invitation.
I didn’t need his key.
After retrieving the less bulky of the plastic bags from my carry-on, I hid my suitcases behind a rose trellis near the front door. Then I tucked the bag into my blouse and walked quietly around to the side of the house.
I went into his bedroom the same way I’d left it weeks earlier.
I climbed up the vine-wrapped drainpipe to the second-floor gallery, pulled up on the guillotine window. It slid silently open and I let myself inside the bedroom. The long, tangerine-colored sheers framing the windows moved gently with the cool evening breeze. And the moonlight flooded in.
Beauprix was sprawled in the center of his queen-size bed. He was on his back, arms flung wide, a soft blanket in a shade of dark chocolate draped across his belly. The corded muscles on his lean body glistened faintly with perspiration.
For a while I stood watching him, listening to the deep rhythm of his breathing. Even at rest, the body reflected the soul of the man. Beautiful. Intense. All strength and symmetry and passion.
I imagined myself nestling in against him, skimming my fingers along the angle of one of his rough cheeks, pausing to touch his full lips, trailing my fingers downward until I was stroking his chest. And then my fingers would continue their journey until I’d pushed the blanket down past his muscular belly.
Looking without touching quickly became too much to bear.
I pulled the plastic bag from my shirt.
“Hello, Anthony,” I said.
With a start, he opened his eyes, turned his head.
That’s when I tossed the bag.
It landed, as I’d intended, right next to his pillow.
He sat up and swung his legs off the bed. Picked up the bag, saw what it contained. And he began laughing.
His deep, soft laughter continued until he was across the room and had his arms wrapped around me. His bare skin was warm, and he smelled deliciously male.
I could feel the weight of the plastic bag resting against my back.
“That’s payment for a foot rub,” I said as I nuzzled his chest.
“A foot rub,” he murmured. “And much, much more.”
Then he pressed his mouth to mine. And before too long, he had better things to do with his hands than hold on to a bag filled with blue M&M’s.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-7075-0
A PERFECT COVER
Copyright © 2004 by Maureen Tan
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