by Sandra Brown
He walked over to the old man and placed an affectionate hand on his shoulder. McGraw didn’t flinch or show any reaction whatsoever but continued to stare blankly into middle space.
“He has days when he can’t remember his own children. Other times he claims to have fathered a baby with the seventy-eight-year-old widow who lives next door. Last week they caught him wading naked out there in the lake. It’s a wonder he didn’t drown. The next day, he was right as rain, in total control of his faculties. He beat his nurse in five straight games of checkers.”
He squeezed the man’s shoulder again. “It’s tragic, isn’t it? When you think about how eloquent he used to be in the courtroom. Mind like a steel trap.” He shook his head with remorse. “Now he’ll go for days without saying a word. Other days he’s a regular jabberwocky. Of course at those times he talks crazy and doesn’t make any sense. You can’t put stock in a thing he says.”
Her breath was coming hot and quick. Blood had rushed to her head. She wasn’t on the verge of fainting, but she thought she might explode. She could ignore Chris. She would expect treachery from him. It was Beck’s betrayal that she felt like a mortal wound.
He’d laid this trap for her, then had the gall to talk sweet talk about desire and daydreams. She wanted to scratch his eyes out for getting her to trust him even a tiny bit, for leading her to think that maybe he wasn’t as despicable as the men to whom he owed his fealty.
Turning to him, she said, “You son of a bitch,” which was a paltry epithet compared to what she was feeling.
She brushed past him, left the tasteless pseudo-home, and ran every step of the way back to her car. By the time she reached it, she was gasping for breath, partially because of the heat, but mostly from outrage and humiliation.
She pushed the ignition key into the slot and saw that her hand was bleeding. She had been squeezing her fist so tightly, the teeth of the key had punctured her palm.
chapter 24
Clark Daly left his house at ten past ten. That was a half hour before it was necessary for him to leave, the plant being less than a five-minute drive from his house and his shift starting at eleven.
But the atmosphere at home was so hostile, he’d just as soon be at the foundry. Luce was on his case about Sayre. She had known when she married him that he and Sayre Hoyle had once been involved and that even though they’d been in high school at the time, the relationship had been serious. No self-respecting gossip was going to let Luce miss out on all the juicy details of their romance.
Luce had broached the subject while they were still dating. He was candid with her about Sayre. He would rather she hear the story from him than from people in town who thrived on other people’s misfortunes and loved to embellish them.
Luce had even wormed a confession out of him that he had loved Sayre. But he also had made it clear that their relationship was ancient history, and had reminded her that she wasn’t coming to him a virgin either. The matter was dropped. Once they were married, there were more pressing issues to argue about.
Knowing about Sayre and him was one thing. Having Sayre in town, showing up at their house and looking like a million, was something else. Luce hadn’t liked it one bit. No sooner had Sayre driven away than she had lit into him.
“I won’t have it, Clark.”
She’d spoken in the quiet but firm voice indicating she meant business. When she yelled at him, he knew the quarrel was spawned by anger, that it wasn’t that serious, and that it would be short-lived. This wasn’t one of those. When her voice was low, she was telling him he’d better sit up and take notice of what she was saying.
“On top of the drinking and the chronic depression, I will not have you sleeping around on me with Sayre Hoyle, or Lynch, or whatever her name is.”
“I’m not going to be sleeping with Sayre. We’re old friends.”
“You were lovers.”
“Were. When we were kids. Besides, do you think she’d want me now?”
Of all the things he could have said, that was probably the most ill-advised. Luce took it to mean that if Sayre would have him, he’d be willing. It also suggested that he was good enough for Luce but not good enough for Sayre Hoyle.
She’d been crying when she left for work that morning. By the time she returned that afternoon, the tears had dried, but the climate in the house was cool, downright cold in the bedroom, and here a week after Sayre’s visit it still hadn’t warmed.
The hell of it was, he loved Luce. She didn’t have Sayre’s polish and sophistication, but she possessed a beauty of her own. She loved her children and had provided for them alone when her first husband walked out on her. Most important, she loved him, and that was just shy of a miracle. He had given her few reasons to love him.
Lost in thought, he didn’t notice the car behind him until it was right on his rear bumper. He pulled to the right side of the road, giving the other driver ample room to pass him. But the driver stayed on his tail and began blinking his headlights.
“What the hell?”
Immediately he checked for a light bar on the roof, thinking it might be a patrol car, but there was nothing to indicate that it was an official vehicle. Feeling a twinge of apprehension, he reached beneath his seat for the tire iron he kept there. When he binged, he typically did his drinking in places that had disreputable characters for customers. Occasionally he got crosswise with them. He saw only a driver in the car behind him, but that could be a trick.
The driver flashed his headlights again. Clark pulled his car to the curb and braked. The car behind him did likewise and turned off the headlights. Clark got a tighter grip on the tire iron.
He saw the driver get out, rush around to the passenger side of his car, and tap on the window.
“Clark, it’s me.”
Recognizing the face beneath the baseball cap, he let go of the tire iron and leaned over to unlock the door. Sayre scrambled in and closed the door quickly to extinguish the interior light. She was dressed in blue jeans and a dark T-shirt, her hair stuffed under the cap.
“What the hell are you doing?” he exclaimed.
“I’ll admit it’s a little theatrical, but I had to see you without anyone knowing.”
“I have a telephone and the bill is current. I think.”
“Luce might have answered if I’d called. Unless I miss my guess, she wasn’t too happy to see your high school sweetheart standing in her front yard.”
“No, she wasn’t.”
“I don’t blame her in the least. I would feel the same. But, Clark, I swear I don’t want to complicate things for you. I would never do anything to harm your marriage or come between you and your wife. If you don’t believe that, I must leave right now.”
He studied her face for a moment, and while it was still lovely, her eyes no longer glowed with passion for him. Between Sayre and him there would always be an affection based on bittersweet memories, but their chance for a lasting love had died. Rather, it had been destroyed by Huff. Either way, it was dead, and he knew she was speaking the truth when she said that rekindling their romance wasn’t the reason for this tryst.
“I believe you, Sayre.”
“Good.”
“So what is this about?”
He listened for a full five minutes, his amazement increasing the longer she talked. She finished by saying, “Will you do it?”
“You’re asking me to spy on the men I work with.”
“Because they’re spying on you, Clark.”
She propped her knee up on the seat so she could face him more easily. Leaning forward slightly, she continued. “Do you think Huff and Chris are going to let this strike happen without putting up a fight? Beck Merchant predicted it would get bloody. He referred to it as a war.”
“I’ve heard the scuttlebutt about Charles Nielson,” Clark said. “He’s supposed to be sending union organizers here to talk to us. Secret meetings are being scheduled.”
“So the employees are already talking
about it?”
“Almost to the exclusion of everything else,” he admitted.
“Well, you can be sure that Huff has spies who report to him everything that’s being said, and who is saying it.”
“Everybody knows Fred Decluette is Huff’s man. He was shaken up the night of Billy’s accident. I was there and saw the whole thing. Nobody tried harder than Fred to get him to the hospital before he bled out. But when push comes to shove, Fred’s got six kids to feed, clothe, and educate. He’ll protect his own interests first, and if that means sucking up to Huff, he’ll do it. Others will, too, because it’s a well-known fact that Huff rewards anyone who betrays his pro-union coworkers.”
“Do you know who the others are?”
“Some, not all. Fred’s obvious. Others aren’t.”
“You could level the playing field, Clark. Sniff out Huff’s spies, feed them false information. At the same time, begin organizing men you know who would stand up against Huff if it comes to a showdown. You could help change things.”
She spoke with such conviction, it made him pity her naïveté. “Sayre, changes won’t come about as long as Huff Hoyle has a say-so.”
“He may not have a say-so for long.”
“The heart attack—”
“No, it wasn’t that serious and he’ll probably outlive us all. I was referring to the federal government. Whether or not a strike is successful, several agencies are breathing down his neck. If vast improvements aren’t made, he could be shut down.
“But that wouldn’t exactly be a victory, would it, Clark? Without the foundry, what would happen to the economy of this town? Think of the terrible impact a shutdown would have on all the families who depend on the plant for their livelihoods.” She paused to take a breath, then said earnestly, “Changes must be made, and soon. Otherwise, everyone loses.
“You could make Billy Paulik’s accident count for something, Clark. I know what I’m asking of you won’t be easy. You’ll have to look sharp, be sharp. You’ll have to earn the respect and trust of men.”
He rubbed his jaw and felt the bristle sprouting from it. He was embarrassed because once again she’d caught him unshaven. But it also reminded him of how low he’d sunk. “That’s a challenging assignment.”
“I realize what I’m asking of you.”
“I’m not sure you do.”
“I went onto the shop floor, Clark.”
“I heard about that.”
“I knew it was bad, but frankly I was staggered by how bad. The working conditions are medieval. How do you stand it?”
“We don’t have much choice.”
“Now you do. It’s imperative that changes—drastic changes—be made.”
“I agree. But I’m not the man to do it, Sayre.”
“You’re a leader.”
“I might have been a long time ago. Do I look like a leader of men now?”
“No,” she snapped. “You don’t. What you look like is a damn coward. Yes,” she emphasized when he reacted with surprise. “The other day you told me that your life needed purpose, that you needed to get back on track, that you wanted to do right by your son. Well, I’m handing you a purpose, and you’re backing away from it. Why? What are you afraid of?”
“Failure, Sayre. Failure. And until you’re no longer making money hand over fist and driving fancy cars, until you sink so low that getting out of bed every morning is an effort that requires a sheer act of will, you won’t know what failure feels like.
“You can’t know what it’s like until you walk down the street and know that people who used to cheer you from the bleachers are shaking their heads and whispering behind their hands about wasted lives.” He stopped to compose himself, realizing that he was angry not with her but with himself. “You’re goddamn right I’m afraid. I’m afraid to even hope.”
His speech had subdued her. When she spoke next, her voice was barely audible. “You’re wrong, Clark. I know exactly what it’s like when getting out of bed is an act of will.” She drew a breath that caused her chest to shudder.
“But you’re at a critical crossroads. You can do nothing, tell me no, and continue living as you are. Down on yourself and life in general, drowning your disappointment in whiskey, saying ‘woe is me,’ and making your wife equally miserable, until you finally die a useless, lonely alcoholic. Or you can start acting like the man you were when you were only a boy.”
She took his hand and pressed it between hers. “I don’t want you to do this to get even with Huff. Nothing could pay back what he took from you, Clark. Besides that, he’s not worth it. Nor do I want you to do it for me.” Squeezing his hand more tightly, she said, “I want you to do it for you. Now, what do you say?”
• • •
As she drove back to The Lodge, Sayre was cautiously optimistic that Clark would come through. Calling him a coward had been harsh, but it had given him the kick in the butt he’d needed. She had bet on him retaining some pride buried beneath the layers of defeat. Stung pride was a good motivator.
She didn’t know for certain if her tactic had worked. He’d made no pledge of sobriety. He hadn’t committed himself to the task she had asked of him. But whether or not he could influence the future of Hoyle Enterprises, she hoped that he would improve his life. When she returned to San Francisco, she wanted to leave knowing that at least in that endeavor she had been successful, that she had done some good.
At the door of her motel room, she pushed the key into the lock.
“You’re out late.”
Nearly jumping out of her skin, she spun around to find Chris standing close. It was as though he had materialized out of thin air.
“What do you want, Chris?”
“Can I come in?”
“What for?”
“I want to talk to my sister.”
His disarming smile left her cold. “About what?”
“Invite me in and I’ll tell you.” He held up a bottle. “I brought wine.”
He hadn’t come bearing wine out of the goodness of his heart. Nor had he come merely to chat. Chris had an ulterior motive for everything he did. She just didn’t know what it was tonight. She was loathe to be near him, but in spite of her aversion, she was curious.
Turning back to the door, she opened it and went in ahead of him to switch on the lamps. He followed her inside and took a look around the drab room. “I haven’t patronized this place since high school, when I used to bring girls here. I didn’t pay much attention to the decor then. Not much, is it?”
“No.”
“Then why not stay at home? For ten years Selma has faithfully kept your room shipshape.”
She removed her baseball cap and shook out her hair. “That isn’t my home any longer, Chris.”
He sighed over her stubbornness. “Do you at least have drinking glasses?”
She brought two tissue-sealed plastic cups from the tiny bathroom. He looked at them derisively as he opened the bottle of wine with the corkscrew he’d brought with him. “This is a nice Chardonnay from Napa.”
“I’ve been to the vineyard. It is nice.”
After filling their cups, he touched his to hers. “Cheers, Sayre.”
“What are we drinking to? The coup you pulled off at Calvin McGraw’s house?”
“Ah, that. Forty-eight hours later, you’re still hacked.” He chuckled. “Honestly, I can’t say I blame you. You should have seen the look on your face.”
“I’m sure you and Beck found it amusing.”
He sat down in the shabby armchair and motioned her toward the bed. “Can you sit down and try to be civil?”
She hesitated, then moved to the bed and sat on the edge of it.
“I’ve been waiting for more than an hour,” he said. “Where have you been? Destiny doesn’t offer that much of a nightlife, and the way you’re dressed—”
“What do you want, Chris?”
He sighed. “I can’t be here simply to have a conversation? You won’t let me b
e a nice guy?”
“You’re not a nice guy. You never have been.”
“You know what your problem is, Sayre? You can’t let things go. You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if you didn’t have a bug up your ass.”
“You came with wine to tell me that?”
He shot her a grin but continued. “You’re not happy unless you’re griping about something. I would have thought you’d outgrow that habitual discontent, but no. Now you’re holding grudges for things I did to you when we were kids. Brothers are like that, Sayre. It’s in the job description. Brothers tease and torment their sisters.”
“Danny didn’t.”
“And that’s why you were mad at him. His passiveness made you angry. Danny was born with a submissive nature, but you refused to accept that. You didn’t want to concede that he wouldn’t, possibly couldn’t, stand up for himself.”
She didn’t argue that because it was true.
“You’re still mad at Huff because of Clark Daly.”
She looked down into her wine, hoping that he didn’t catch her alarm at the mention of Clark’s name. She hoped it was a coincidence that Chris had timed this unprecedented visit within minutes of their clandestine meeting.
“You shouldn’t resent Huff for breaking off that relationship,” he said. “You should be thanking him. But all that is water under the bridge.” He reached for the wine bottle and refilled his cup.
“Your current grievance is Danny’s death, and that’s what I want to talk about. You’ve taken it upon yourself to do some sleuthing into his apparent homicide.”
“And you came here tonight to threaten me to back off, or else.”
“Not at all,” he replied evenly. “I admire and share your desire to get to the truth. What I’m having trouble with is the direction you’ve taken. Let me make this clear, Sayre, and save you a lot of time and trouble. My trial three years ago has nothing whatsoever to do with what happened to Danny.