In the Shade of the Blossom Tree

by Joanna Rees

  She was relieved to see that her hunch had been correct and they’d come in just where Mike wanted them: directly below where they’d seen the man on the catwalk. She pointed her fingers to her eyes, then above them, to signal to Mike where the shooter was.

  Mike looked around. The ground rose up ahead of them, then an aisle led away in between the stalls. In the distance, they could see the boxers in the ring, circling each other, closing in for the kill.

  Which meant no shot could yet have been fired, or the fight would be over. And a stampede would have taken its place.

  Mike tore off his jacket. He was wearing a pistol in a holster strapped across his chest. Lois recognized the weapon. Mike unclipped the holster and flicked the pistol’s safety off. He reached up for the ladder above.

  ‘Get to the senator,’ he hissed. ‘Get him out. I’m going up.’

  Mike climbed. Lois ran.

  She’d already worked out in her mind where the senator was sitting. But he still seemed impossibly far away. She raced down the aisle, the stalls stretching away from her to the left and right.

  She was terrified. And not just for the senator. For herself as well.

  If the shooter saw her running, he might also work out why. Any second now and he might take his shot at the senator. Or whoever the hell else he had come here to kill. Or he might just decide to take her out instead. Figuring that if she’d already realized what was going on, she might also have somehow ID’d him.

  Reaching the end of the aisle, she switched left, didn’t stop.

  There. Up ahead. She saw him. Senator Josh Fernandez. His eyes glued to the ring. Oblivious to her approach.

  Nearer now, agents March and Ransom spotted her. Both of them started to rise.

  Move him, dammit. GET HIM DOWN.

  But then the crowd leaped to its feet. People in the front row stepped forward. Turning. Twisting. Getting in her way.

  Ten thousand screams. A shimmer of camera flashes. The fight – it had to be over. One of the boxers had to be down.

  Or the shot had already been fired.

  Lois fought through the bodies. Didn’t care who she hit. Kept going. Then she spotted the senator again. Smiling. Pointing at the ring. He was head and shoulders above everyone else around him.

  An easy target.

  Lois was screaming now. But her voice was swallowed by the roar of the crowd.

  She slammed one man aside, then another. She was nearly there.

  A woman in a baseball cap was standing in front of the senator. It couldn’t be. It was! Savannah Hudson.

  Right in the way . . . her phone held above her head taking pictures.

  Lois didn’t hesitate. She threw her aside.

  Still screaming . . . breathless . . . terrified . . . Lois launched herself at Fernandez.

  Lois was in the senator’s arms when she heard the shot.

  A look of shock on his face. Of fear.

  Then they were turning slowly together . . . as if in slow motion . . .

  Entwined. Like dancers.

  There was a moment of absolute silence. The world shook, shunted sideways. Lois couldn’t hear anything. They were crashing to the floor, two lovers pressed together. She stared into his eyes.

  An explosion of red.

  Blood blossomed across his white shirt.

  They’ve got him, she thought. I’m too late.

  A wave of white-hot pain ripped across her body. She knew with absolute clarity that she’d been shot as well.

  ‘Too late,’ she whispered.

  They were both going to die.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Savvy hadn’t run a kilometre since she was fifteen. And never in heels. As she stopped now, folding forward to put her hands on her knees, her chest heaving, she knew that the drugs and cigarettes had taken more of a toll than she’d realized.

  ‘Jesus Christ, come on, come on,’ she muttered, as she leaned against the buzzer on the side gate of her father’s house.

  She looked up at the property’s colossal outer perimeter wall, and the palm tree fronds hanging over the top. Once she got inside, she’d be safe. That was all that mattered right now.

  Terror still gripped her. Her mind kept jerking back to the arena. She wiped away the tears which streaked her face. She didn’t want to think about it. The mayhem. The thunder of feet. The screaming mouths and grabbing hands and the whites of people’s eyes.

  Fight or flight. It was a reaction that defined everyone. So what did that make her for acting the way she had? A coward, or a survivor? Or both?

  The second she’d seen that Chan woman running towards her, flinging herself over the seats, Savvy’s senses had screamed out danger.

  Gunshots had cracked out. The whole arena had exploded into panic.

  Terror, that was what had governed her actions then.

  Her instinct had told her to run, so that was what she’d done. Right into the crush, the hysterical stampede.

  Her legs were now bruised. Her elbows too. She’d fought to get out.

  A wave of guilt crept over her. Was Marcus OK? She hoped so. She’d lost him in the crowd. She should go back. To stop herself worrying. To stop him worrying about her too.

  But she couldn’t bring herself to. All she could think of was the screams, the flailing bodies, the anger and fear. She couldn’t return. Not now she’d got away. And besides, Marcus was a big boy. He’d got himself in and out of plenty of scrapes. He’d be OK, wouldn’t he?

  Sirens wailed in the distance. Only now did she wonder with horror whether everyone else had been as lucky as her.

  Deal with what you can deal with, she told herself. Worry about everything else later.

  But Savvy knew she’d fucked up big time. She should never have gone to the Enzo Vegas. How had she ever thought she’d get away with being at the fight? Even if she’d escaped getting caught on the TV fight footage, the media might still track her down on the CCTV . . .

  If she’d been identified as the person right in front of Josh Fernandez, she’d be infamous by dawn.

  Stop it, she told herself. Calm down. There’s still a chance you might get away with this.

  There was the hat for a start. Yes, at least she’d been wearing Marcus’s hat.

  And secondly, she’d got out fast. Faster than most people. She hadn’t been spotted, or cornered for an interview. Like a scalded cat, she’d fled into the night.

  She wiped the cold sweat from her brow, as the CCTV camera bolted to the wall swivelled round to scrutinize her. When the gate lock buzzed, she hurriedly pushed through.

  An immaculate lawn stretched away from Savvy. A lake rippled in its centre. As the gate clicked closed behind her, it was as if she’d been transported to a different world.

  The grand white building with the domed roof had been modelled on the White House in Washington. With his South African background, Hud might not have been able to qualify to stand for President of the United States himself, but he could sure as hell let everyone know that one day he intended to rule this city.

  Savvy hated the place, preferring to keep her base in LA. This wasn’t a home. It was a fiction. A fairground ride. Again, Tristan Blake’s words echoed through her head – a cruise ship. Just like La Paris, the White House had no Vegas heart.

  But tonight she’d never been more pleased to see it. Tonight the White House offered safety and protection. Tonight, it really was what her father had always wanted it to be. Tonight it was home.

  Savvy took a moment to compose herself, to steady her breathing, to smooth down her clothes.

  She gazed up at the White House rising sepulchrally into the night sky. She’d never prayed in her life, but she sent up a prayer now. For everyone who’d been in the Enzo Vegas tonight. For Marcus and the senator. For the cops. She prayed that every single person in there made it out in one piece.

  Up ahead, at the end of a well-lit gravel path, the kitchen side door swung open, casting a block of yellow light out on to the wal
led herb gardens. A shadow stretched out. Martha’s big frame filled the doorway. As Savvy hurried towards her, she stretched her arms out wide.

  ‘Baby Girl,’ Martha said, in her heavy Cape Town accent, enfolding Savvy in a warm hug.

  Baby Girl. That was what Martha had always called her. Martha had been Hud’s nanny back in South Africa and remained his housekeeper still, even though she was now nearly eighty years old. Savvy loved the old lady dearly. She’d taken care of her and Elodie after their mother had died. She’d showered them with love when Hud had buried himself deeper and deeper in his work.

  A vision of childhood . . . of hot chocolate, lullabies and bedtime stories . . . of their home outside of Vegas in Boulder City, before the White House had been built . . . filled Savvy’s mind. She wished she could stay here in Martha’s arms for ever, awash with the scent of mint and rosemary and sage. She wished Martha still had the power to make her nightmares go away.

  Martha peered hard into her eyes. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked.

  There was no point in lying to Martha. She always saw straight through Savvy’s ruses. But at the same time, Savvy knew there was no way to explain what had happened tonight, not while she was still trying to come to terms with it herself.

  ‘No,’ Savvy said, ‘but I hope it will be soon . . .’

  Martha nodded, deciding not to push her any further. The sprinklers started to hiss across the lawns.

  ‘Ellie’s here,’ she said, steering Savvy gently inside. ‘She was telling me she’s not seen you much lately.’

  This was true. Elodie had some tedious notion about a joint birthday party and Savvy had been avoiding her and her calls. Because the plain fact of the matter was that Elodie’s idea of a party and Savvy’s idea of a party were just about as different as you could get.

  ‘You need to be mindful of that, you know,’ Martha went on. ‘You’re twins . . . Which means, like it or not, Baby Girl, she’s the closest thing you’re ever gonna have.’

  Savvy followed Martha through the lofty kitchens, where several members of Hud’s staff were clearing away crockery and cutlery.

  ‘You’ve missed dinner,’ Martha said, ‘but I can find you a plate of food, if you’re hungry.’

  ‘Thanks, Martha, but I’ll be OK.’

  Martha frowned. ‘They’re in the drawing room.’

  Kicking off her shoes, Savvy held them in her hand and let the coolness of the black-and-white chequered marble tiles soothe her feet like a balm. Ahead of her was a long buttressed hallway and at its far end a strip of soft light glowed beneath a dark oak door. After the frenzy of the Enzo Vegas, she felt as if she’d been through a timewarp.

  Savvy walked towards the strip of light, passing beneath the oil painting of the first Michael Hudson, Hud’s grandfather, dressed in Victorian hunting clothes, his leather boot pressing down on a dead tiger’s head. The portrait was as fake as the White House itself. There weren’t even any tigers in Africa. Not that anyone had ever dared challenge Hudson on this point. Or ever would, Savvy guessed.

  Savvy stopped at the end of the hallway. She looked at herself in a long antique mirror and brushed the hair from her face, before licking the tip of her finger and wiping a smudge of eyeliner away. Putting her heels back on, she winced at the pain.

  She wavered, her hand on the chunky brass doorknob, fighting the urge to run away. She thought about what might be waiting for her on the other side of the door. All the questions and recriminations. Hud’s anger.

  She could feel her energy levels and confidence dipping, as the vestiges of the coke wore off and the post-adrenalin fatigue kicked in. She’d kill for another line, but there was nowhere she could go. She could feel Martha’s brooding presence back there in the entrance hall. If for a second she thought Savvy had ever tried drugs, it would break the old lady’s heart.

  No, Savvy would have to deal with this straight. By herself. She opened the door a crack, the same way she’d done when she’d come downstairs as a teenager to steal Hud’s whisky in the middle of the night.

  Holding her breath, she peered inside.

  The drawing room exuded power and wealth. A Vermeer oil painting hung in an ornate gold frame. Woven silk rugs patterned the floor around the gilded antique sofas and chairs. Tapestries hung between the floor-to-ceiling sash windows, beside the Steinway grand piano Savvy had never heard anyone play.

  The room looked personal, a collector’s paradise, but it wasn’t. An interior designer had styled it. All Hud had done was pay the bill.

  Paige Logan stood with her arms folded over a tailored Ralph Lauren jacket, watching the giant plasma TV screen blaring out from above the marble fireplace. Her face was pinched into a frown beneath her Calvin Klein glasses and thick auburn hair. She might be quite the corporate power dresser these days – she’d matched up her jacket with pinstripe trousers and a white-ruffled shirt – but beneath it all, Savvy still somehow always managed to glimpse her oldest friend, the same geeky kid with broken glasses, buck teeth and braces she’d met when they were both eleven years old.

  Savvy had saved Paige’s geeky scholarship ass from the bullies in the English boarding school where they’d been incarcerated together in their teens. And two years ago, when Paige had graduated top of her MBA class at Harvard, it had been Savvy she’d turned to for a job.

  Paige had always been entranced by the vast business empire Hud had built up from scratch. And now she clearly had ambitions of her own. It had struck Savvy as a business match made in heaven and she’d been only too delighted to set about making her oldest friend’s dream come true.

  At the time it had been a win-win situation. Hud had already announced his intention to bring on someone young and ambitious with fresh ideas. Savvy had secretly suspected that he’d been fishing for her to go and work for him, but she hadn’t mentioned that to Paige. Instead, taking her father at his word, she’d recommended Paige and had personally vouched for her. Paige’s rock-solid business qualifications, charming manner and sweet looks had done the rest. And from her very first day at the office, of course, Paige had naturally excelled.

  Savvy couldn’t exactly take back her decision about Paige now, she supposed. Not now that Paige was good news and so integral to the company – a company that Savvy and Elodie would one day own.

  But at the same time, Savvy couldn’t help feeling sad that her best friend had been gobbled up by her father’s all-consuming corporate beast. Paige was so serious these days. So focused on business. So much like Hud himself.

  And there he was. Next to Paige. With Elodie – typically – at his side.

  They too were staring up at the screen and, as Savvy followed their gaze, she felt like a stone had just dropped into the pit of her stomach. The TV showed the Enzo Vegas surrounded by a buzzing swarm of paramedics, cops and FBI.

  Be brazen, she told herself, as she leaned her weight against the heavy door. Front this out. Act like you haven’t got a clue what’s going on. And don’t admit to being anywhere near that place – at least not until you’ve been accused . . .

  Savvy swung the door back fully now and strode into the room, chucking her bag on a high-backed leather reading chair.

  ‘Don’t I even get a hello?’ she said loudly.

  Hud didn’t turn round. ‘Quiet,’ he said. ‘We’re watching the news.’

  ‘Why? What’s going on?’

  ‘Oh, God. Haven’t you heard?’

  It was Elodie, turning to face her, her baby-blue eyes bright with alarm. She was wearing a pink cashmere dress with a knotted string of pearls. It was a Moschino piece which should have been funky, but she’d somehow managed to make it look square. Her short hair had been cut in an attempt at a jaunty Audrey Hepburn crop, but only succeeded in making her boyish and severe.

  If they knew you’d been at the Enzo, they’d already have reacted by now, Savvy thought.

  ‘Heard what?’ she said, feeling her confidence growing.

  Paige was starin
g at her in confusion, clearly surprised to see her here in Vegas at all. Savvy hurried over to join them, wanting to know how bad it all was, desperate to discover if there’d been any word on the senator or Marcus.

  The news anchorman’s voice delivered a breathless commentary: ‘. . . still no news on Senator Fernandez’s condition . . . A second casualty has been reported . . . a staff member . . . But this is not, I stress not, a siege situation . . . First indications are that the gunman was acting alone . . .’

  So it was nothing like as bad as Savvy had feared . . . Marcus must be safe.

  Hud pressed the TV zapper, muting the sound. He was wearing a black polo shirt with a dark tan suit and handmade Italian calfskin shoes. In his mid-sixties, he remained a broad-shouldered bull of a man, tough-looking but ruggedly handsome too. Three years back, he’d been diagnosed with a heart condition, brought on by decades of stress, drinking and smoking, but he’d now given up all his vices and worked out twice a day. His white hair was closely cropped and he was wearing half-glasses, which he carefully removed before fixing Savvy with a piercing stare.

  ‘They shot a senator over at the Enzo,’ he said, tapping his glasses on his hand.

  ‘Oh,’ Savvy said. ‘That’s awful . . .’

  ‘Where were you?’ he asked. ‘Why did you miss dinner?’

  ‘What senator? Who was he?’ Savvy asked, avoiding his question. She loaded her voice with concerned sincerity.

  ‘Senator Fernandez,’ another man’s voice said.

  Savvy jolted. She felt her cheeks burning as she turned to see a man rising from a deep leather armchair in the corner of the room.

  Luc Devereaux. So he was here. As she’d known he would be.

  Because where Paige was Hud’s Girl Friday, Luc Devereaux was very much his right-hand man.

  Luc was as chic as ever, in an artfully creased cream linen suit, with a white shirt and diamond cufflinks. He was classically handsome, with dark, thick wavy hair and tanned smooth skin. He had a defined roman nose and that unmistakable hint of European nobility about his bone structure that her father so admired. He looked like a man born to rule, but what saved him and made him so undeniably beautiful were the dimples in his cheeks. And now as he walked forward, his hand in his pocket, he oozed charisma.