When she was gone, Nico sank gingerly into a chair and reached for his tablet to make one final call.
“General Logan McClosky’s home.” Nico recognized the butler’s punctilious voice.
“Peter, this is Nicolás Fernández. The general said you would be expecting me today?”
“Yes, Mr. Fernández. We’re looking forward to having you stay with us, as always.”
“Thank you. I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans. I’m not really able to drive out there as I intended to.”
“Would you like me to arrange for a car to pick you up, sir?”
Nico closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead. He didn’t really want McClosky seeing him in this shape, but returning to his mother before he had healed up a bit was out of the question, and he desperately didn’t want to be alone. “Yes, Peter, thank you. That would be perfect. Send it to my hotel around noon?”
“I’ll do that, sir.”
Once he disconnected the call, Nico refreshed the THC oil in the diffuser, complete with its special additive, and made a voice recording of the mantra he’d been chanting in his head all night, trying to offset as much of the psychological trauma from his ordeal as he could.
I have power. I am free. I am safe. I choose my own trials and my own destiny. Littlewood is an insignificant blip on the chart of my life, and nothing he has done matters. I am not his victim.
He set the recording to play on a loop and crawled between the fresh, clean sheets. The cannabis oil calmed him, and he willed his brain to absorb the programming. Lying there, he closed his eyes and listened to his breath as he meditated, sinking into a hypnosis-like trance and finally drifting to sleep.
MID-JUNE
“Father wants to see you in his study.”
Zach blinked, pulling his wandering thoughts back to the here and now. The itinerary he’d ostensibly been perusing swam back into view before he looked up at his brother.
“What, now?”
“Yes, of course, now.” Jacob rolled his eyes. “I don’t know why you even pretend to work for him anymore.”
Zach considered arguing, but Jacob had a point. He wasn’t sure why he still worked for his father, either. He looked back down at the itinerary, unwilling to let Jacob know just how astute his statement was. In the three months leading up to their father declaring his candidacy—the press conference was scheduled for next week, and it would be followed by a grueling whistle-stop tour—Zach had become less and less a part of the reverend’s campaign. Now he was little more than a glorified gofer.
Working downtown at the shelter had become his refuge, and he’d been letting matters with the campaign slide to make time for it. Even now, the thought of leaving town to accompany his father on the press tour was making pain spike behind his eyes.
He turned his back and shrugged off Jacob’s needling. From the family room, he could hear his sisters—Mary, Naomi, and Rebecca—watching a vid. His mother was in the kitchen, telling the cook who would be attending tonight’s dinner and what their requirements were.
It was so cliché and antiquated an arrangement that Zach could have vomited. Nothing about the Houtmans’ lifestyle had anything to do with the reality most Americans faced. How on earth did his father believe he could represent the public?
It had become a reflex to straighten his clothing before entering his father’s presence. Zach wasn’t sure why he bothered with that anymore, either. He certainly wasn’t going to win any approval, and it was impossible for him to remain silent when the reverend’s dogma got out of hand. Their arguments had been getting increasingly explosive, usually resulting in a headache and Zach yielding the field when it wasn’t worth pressing his point.
Jacob appeared behind him in the hallway mirror as Zach checked his reflection. “He said I can go on tour with you next week,” Jacob announced with a gloating smile.
Zach fought to keep the grimace off his face. “Don’t you have school?”
“He’s arranged with the principal to let me take my finals early.”
“Then shouldn’t you be studying?”
Jacob smirked. “Father made it clear he isn’t paying my tuition and donating to the school to have them fail me.”
Zach blinked and did a double take before he could stop himself, and Jacob’s expression grew even smugger. Had their father seriously threatened to withdraw his support from the West Haveland Bible Academy if they didn’t give Jacob a passing grade?
He shook his head and fumbled in his pocket for his prescription bottle, then checked his watch after he’d taken the tablet to see how long he had until he could leave for tonight’s shift at the shelter. This was how his days often went: trying to hold his own against the reverend and Jacob, and then waiting impatiently for his chance to escape.
From the sound of it, his father was on a vid call with the door cracked open. Zach hesitated outside, torn between appearing as instructed and interrupting.
“I don’t give a damn how impatient your people are, Dennis. You’ll sit on them until after my press conference.”
“Move the press conference forward.” The voice on the other end sounded familiar, but Zach couldn’t place it. “I’m telling you, Maurice, this opportunity is too good to pass up. The midsummer party—”
“That wasn’t the plan. We talked about the campaign headquarters.”
“But this is better. If you can time your conference so it’s just before the party, stir people up a little—”
Zach knocked without waiting to hear any more. To hell with interrupting. If he had to listen to one more person encouraging his father’s misguided and frankly unchristian rhetoric, he’d scream.
“Hold on, Dennis.” The reverend blanked the display and muted the sound quickly when Zach pushed the door open.
“You wanted to see me, Father?”
“Have a seat.” His father gestured toward one of the chairs opposite his desk. It was a rigid, uncomfortable thing. The reverend’s office wasn’t about working with others; it was about authority. If he called someone in here, he wanted them at attention, even when he made a pretense of telling them to settle in. Zach had endured any number of dressing-downs sitting in those miserable chairs, and his backside had met the business end of his father’s belt more than once as he braced his hands on that desk.
It occurred to him—not for the first time—that all his efforts to make himself acceptable to the reverend had failed. At first he’d tried because filial obedience had been drilled into his head from the time he could talk. Then he’d tried because he sensed that his father considered him a deficient son, and Zach had wanted to correct whatever it was he lacked. That drive had eventually been replaced by pure guilt. All his life, each time he dissented with his father, he pushed the blasphemy down with a sense of shame and redoubled his efforts. But it had never worked. Maybe he was born flawed, or maybe his father just couldn’t be pleased.
Now, though, he recognized the futility of it all. He was tired of trying to convince himself that his own judgment was wrong and his father’s was always right. He didn’t even want to be the son the reverend wanted—unquestioning of his dictates, pandering to his sense of self-importance. Jacob was good at it, but even watching Jacob do it made Zach feel dirty. He wasn’t about to try to emulate his younger brother.
Where did that leave him, though?
The reverend resumed his call, leaving it on voice-only as if he didn’t want Zach to see whom he was speaking to. “Dennis, I’ll get back to you. You make some good points about the midsummer events. I’ll see what I can do about rescheduling.”
Zach frowned as his father disconnected. “What’s this about midsummer?”
Something—distress? annoyance? guilt?—flickered in the reverend’s eyes. He wouldn’t quite meet Zach’s gaze when he answered. “Some of my advisers think it would be a good idea to formally declare my intent to run as a counter to the midsummer paganism, since it’s such a tenet of my platform to highlight the
way our society has drifted away from God.”
Zach rubbed his temple. He should let it slide, but technically it was still his job to manage his father’s campaign. “The midsummer celebrations are largely secular. They have no more to do with whatever rites they originated from than Christmas or Easter do.”
“If we tolerate any hint of paganism, it will make us look weak,” the reverend insisted. “Besides, there is a lot of media attention focused on the midsummer affairs. We can capture some of that vid-news time and capitalize on it.”
“If you’re looking to turn off potential voters, then go right ahead,” Zach grated. “Or perhaps we could try to understand and acknowledge that Christmas became too expensive for many to celebrate. The retail and industrial tenant workers needed another holiday, something where the emphasis wasn’t on buying presents or traveling to be with family. If you try to take that away from them—”
“It’s not your concern, Zacharias.” His father gave him a withering look. “We know what we’re doing. Besides, most of the tenant workers give their proxy votes to their residence managers. They’re the ones we need to impress, and they’re the ones who have to clean up the mess when the celebrations get out of hand in the tenements.”
Zach bit his tongue on another torrent of protests.
“If you didn’t want my advice as your campaign manager, what did you want to see me about?” Zach finally asked, surrendering the urge to argue in favor of ending this conference as soon as possible.
The reverend grimaced again at Zach’s informal tone. He wasn’t sure when he’d stopped using the more deferential “sir” when addressing his father, but he was determined not to pander any longer.
“I called you in here to tell you that you are to stop volunteering downtown.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re mingling with the wrong sort of people at those shelters. If word gets out about where you spend your time—”
“No.”
“What?”
“No, I won’t stop volunteering.” He tried to soften the refusal by appealing to his father’s ambition. “Charity work always looks good for a candidate, especially one espousing Christian values, and you’ll be too busy to do it yourself. If I’m perceived as your representative there—”
“And will you also be perceived as my representative when you’re dispensing aid and counsel to sodomites?”
The trap snapped shut around him, and everything inside Zach went cold. “I— Is that what this is about? Bryan Mitchell’s court case?” He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t even want to know how you know about that.”
“It’s my business to know what my representatives are up to.” The reverend drummed his fingers on his desk, looking utterly unconcerned about having his son spied upon. “I’ve built my entire campaign on bringing morality back to this nation. You should know, you helped me build it.”
“No. I helped you build a campaign based on bringing the Lord’s word back to this nation. His true word. Christ’s message of love and mercy. Not this warped, sensationalist excuse for hate- and fear-mongering that your consultants and advisers are pushing on you.” Zach shook his head. “What happened to you, Father? You were always a little too judgmental at your pulpit, but never to this extent. Are you so fixated on your ambition that you’ve completely forgotten what Jesus taught us?”
“Don’t presume to teach me God’s word.” There was something cold and vicious in the reverend’s voice, and Zach hugged himself before he could stop the defensive gesture. “The bottom line is, you cannot be seen helping a faggot. It looks bad.”
“What I’m doing for Bryan has nothing to do with his sexuality. His husband was murdered a year ago by the guards in the tenements while trying to prevent his little brother from being mugged, and when Bryan tried to protest the cover-up, he was fired and evicted. I just want to help him find justice—if there even is such a thing anymore—and an opportunity to get out of the shelter.”
“Whatever the excuse, it ends now,” the reverend decreed. “Now go.”
“No.” Adrenaline surged through Zach in a sickening, gut-twisting rush, and he folded his hands together to hide their trembling. Never had he outright defied his father like this. He forced himself to hold the reverend’s gaze without flinching. “I promised my help, and I’ll give it.”
His father’s face flushed an ugly shade, and his voice grew even colder. “Zacharias, I would advise you to think very, very carefully before you flout my authority. Our ministry and political donors have provided for us generously. We live well here. What employment prospects do you think you’ll have as a failed political adviser who parted on bad terms with his candidate? You never went to seminary, and you can be certain no congregation Houtman Ministries is affiliated with will offer you a job if you abandon us. Are you willing to join your street-trash friends living in the tenements, working for one of the retail or industrial corps?”
Zach blinked slowly. “Are you honestly saying you would throw me out simply for helping the less fortunate?”
The reverend sighed tragically. “It would be with a heavy heart, but I won’t let you damage my campaign.”
Zach rose on shaky legs, turned, and walked carefully to the open door. Jacob scurried away outside in the hallway, pretending he hadn’t been eavesdropping. Zach looked over his shoulder at his father.
“So your campaign is more important than doing what’s right. More important than your own son. Nothing you’re doing here has anything to do with God,” he said softly. “None of it.”
He closed the office door behind him and met Jacob’s smirk.
“At least Father still has one son he can rely on,” Jacob gloated before he pushed past Zach to let himself into the office without knocking.
To hell with waiting for his scheduled time. Clenching his fists, Zach reached for the nearest comm panel and called for a car to take him to the shelter.
Costas Companions always hosted a midsummer bonfire at Silvia’s New Jersey estate. Even celebrities vied for invitations, which were generally only extended to favored clientele. Logan McClosky had been attending for more than twenty years.
The moment Nico saw the general walk into the reception under the pavilion, he knew something wasn’t right. He glanced at his mother, whose eyes had narrowed. She gave McClosky a venomous look, and Nico took a step toward the general.
Silvia caught his wrist and stopped him. “I need to have a word with Logan,” she said with ice in her tone. “Go see to the other guests.”
Before Nico could argue, she strode across the pavilion alone, the jet accents on her sleek pantsuit glinting and flashing. Nico grimaced, then followed her.
“I don’t recall sending you an invitation,” she said without even a greeting. It was a small mercy that she pitched her voice low enough that the other guests couldn’t hear. Anyone observant enough to notice the way her fists were clenched at her sides, however, would pick up on the tension.
McClosky flicked a look toward Nico, who was hanging back, close enough to overhear without Silvia realizing he’d followed her. It had been about three months since the general had returned home to find Nico covered in bruises from his job with Secretary Littlewood. Aching, Nico had attempted a lopsided smile for McClosky and had muttered, “Someday that asshole’s going to kill someone.”
“How is he?” McClosky asked, turning back to Silvia.
“As if you care,” she snapped. The general steadily met her angry eyes. “How dare you send one of my employees—any of my employees—into such a situation? I’ve trusted you with my people for years, Logan. Don’t tell me you didn’t know what that man would do to him. Your information is always far too thorough for me to buy it.”
“Silvia, I swear to you that there was nothing in his dossier to suggest he would go as far as he did.”
Her chin lifted. “And if there had been, would you still have sent one of my employees to him, much less my son?”
McClosky opened his mouth only to close it again, his face neutral.
Silvia stared at him for a moment, then gave a jerky nod. “That’s what I thought. While we thank you for your years of loyal patronage, General McClosky, I regret to inform you that Costas Companions will no longer be contracting with you.”
“God willing, Silvia, I won’t need to do it again.”
“Good. If you do, find someone else. Feel free to stay and enjoy the celebration. Your hasty departure would be conspicuous. But when you leave, don’t come back. Do not contact any of my people again, and do not ask my son to do any more jobs for you.”
That was more than enough. Nico closed the discreet distance between himself and his mother, speaking over her shoulder. “I’ll thank you to remember that I decide with whom I contract my services.” She jumped when he spoke and looked back at him with an argument already forming on her lips. “If you don’t like that, fire me. I’ll go independent, and I’ll take my client list with me. But don’t carry on as though this is the general’s fault. I’ve told you before: I could have removed myself from the situation and refused to carry out the job. I chose not to. When you blame him, you take away the validity of my choice and make me a victim, and no one does that to me, Mother, not even you.”
Silvia’s eye widened, and she gave him an entreating look. “Nicolás—”
Nico gentled his words with a smile and kissed her cheek. “Why don’t we just enjoy the party, Mamá, okay?” He squeezed her hand and turned his soft smile to Logan. “Let’s get you a drink, sir.” Nico slipped his arm through McClosky’s and led him away.
“What can I get you, General? Wine? Beer? Port? Vodka? Brandy? We don’t have whiskey tonight, sorry. I really can’t stand the smell of it just yet.”
“Beer will be fine.” McClosky frowned as if troubled that Nico was still so traumatized that he’d developed such an aversion. “How are you, Nico?”
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