“The helicopter was apparently experiencing mechanical difficulties of some kind.”
“How do you know?”
“The witness indicated that.”
“So you’re saying that this intrusion was an accident?”
“We believe so, yes.”
“Three dead?”
“Yes.”
“And the others?”
“Which others?”
“There was an unconfirmed report that one or two…”
“No. Just three passengers. All of them were killed.”
“It was… hold on a minute.”
Neri adjusted her earpiece and Samson stood to adjust the blinds, pulling the cord firmly to make certain they were closed as far as they would go. Angelique asked if there was any wine in the house. He nodded as the reporter continued.
“A source close to…”
“Who?” Calvello demanded.
“A source close to the Cook County Sheriff’s Police has informed CCNN that a helicopter was stolen from Palwaukee Airport in nearby Mount Prospect shortly before the helicopter crash here at Sanctuary Creek. Can you comment on that report, Mr. Calvello?”
“No.”
“Have you been in touch with the Sheriff’s Police?”
“They have been advised of the crash.”
“Has the Sheriff notified you of the identity of the helicopter, the serial number of the helicopter that was stolen from Palwaukee?”
“They have.”
“And is that helicopter the same one that crashed here or landed… you did say it landed, right?”
“From what we know, yes.”
“Is it the same helicopter?”
“Not that we are aware.”
“Coincidence?”
“Could be.”
“But it could be the same helicopter?”
“Could be.”
“When do you expect to know if it is the same?”
“The helicopter here was destroyed.”
“But you could still…”
“It was destroyed. It might take a long time to identify its origin.”
“The FAA could help.”
“Perhaps.”
“Will you be asking the FAA to assist in the investigation?”
“That decision has not been made.”
“Would you speculate?”
“No. I’ll leave that to the press.”
“Have you talked to the Pope?”
“No.”
“Will you?”
“What do you think, Miss Neri?”
“Mrs. Neri.”
“What do you think, Mrs. Neri?”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask the questions.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ve got some important matters to attend to.”
Calvello walked away, escorted by four of his team.
“Well, Geoff, as you can see there is a tremendous deal, a tremendous amount of tension here at Sanctuary Creek, and I’ll be staying here until we get to the bottom of this strange and frightening story.”
“Thank you, Pam. And we’ll be right back with our live coverage of the helicopter crash at Sanctuary Creek, following these messages.”
“This is just great,” Samson sighed as he reached into the refrigerator and removed a bottle of jug Chablis. “This is just great,” he repeated as he fetched two glasses from a cabinet and set them on the island.
“What’s wrong, honey? It’s probably nothing more than an accident.”
“Yeah, an accident,” he mumbled as he poured a deep amount into her glass, a shallow one into his.
“Well?”
“Well what if it isn’t an accident? What if the people who stole the helicopter stole it to get into the Creek? What about that?”
“But they don’t even know that. Maybe it’s nothing more than…”
“Nothing more than what? Just a small helicopter crash here at Sanctuary Creek, occurring to coincide with my going into the Cabinet while there happens to be this huge amount of paranoia all over the place?”
“Paranoia? About what?”
“About everything?”
“The elections?”
“Nah.”
“The Diaries?”
“The Diaries?”
“Yes. The Diaries.”
“What about them?”
“Well,” she replied, cocking her head, boosting herself onto the island and taking a swallow, “there was supposed to be an announcement last week and it never happened.”
“There was?”
“Where have you been? Don’t you read the trades, watch television?” Her picture on the cover of RCC This Week flashed through his mind. Fallen Angel. He pictured his face on the cover of the next issue. Fallen Secretary of Finance.
“Yeah, speaking of which…”
“Now don’t start in on me about that rubbish, that trash that’s in this week’s issue,” she replied as if she’d read his mind. “That is about the lowest, cheapest piece of garbage I have ever read in my entire life.”
“I…”
“We’ve already got the lawyers on it. Julianne is taking care of it. She’s flying in tomorrow and we’re going down to the city to meet with them and with some people from that poor excuse of a magazine and…”
“But I…”
She slammed her glass down on the island and hopped off it in one motion, eyes filled with rage. “Jesus Christ! They have the nerve, the gall, to insinuate that I decided to star in some cheap porn flick is about as… Jesus Christ!”
She picked up her glass, drained it, then yanked the braid around to her chest and stroked it rapidly.
“Who the hell do they think I am? What is it with those people? Especially that sniveling bitch Wanda Contos.”
“Who?”
“Wanda Contos. The tramp who wrote that hatchet job! I’d like to see some of her home movies!”
“Well…”
“And don’t tell me well, Terry. How would you like it if somebody picked up some cheap piece of gossip about you and blew it all out of proportion and then pasted it all over every newsstand in North America? How would you like it? You civilians just don’t understand.”
He apologized, “I know what you mean.”
“Yeah,” she replied. “I guess you do.”
She poured herself another glass, Samson declined, then they traipsed back to the den to see the story unfold, caught together again as they’d been at the luxury hotel. But this time there were no witnesses present.
It was still drama on the screen but the focus had shifted. Geoff Grading had a new story to report. The helicopter crash was yesterday’s news. Two armed robbers were stuck inside a bank on the North Side of Chicago, ten to 15 hostages were being held. They watched, Angelique noting: “Isn’t this great?”
The phone rang. Samson went into the kitchen, picking up on the third ring.
“Hey, Cardinal Samson,” Carter chuckled. “What’s going on over in Residential? D’you call it quits for the day?”
“No, Cardinal Sherwood. I’m under house arrest.”
“The Vaticanate boys tell you to stay inside until they had a chance to do one of their scorched earth exercises?”
“Something like that.”
“Man, you wonder sometimes when they’re gonna get real jobs, ya know?”
“So what’s the poop?”
“On the crash?”
“No, on the weather. What do you know?”
“Seems a helicopter stolen from Palwaukee experienced some mechanical problems and the three unfortunate criminals who commandeered the ill-fated flight managed to not only kill themselves in the process but also managed to wreck a few of the nicest trees we got here in the process. That wood keeps getting chopped, it’s gonna be like Nebraska around here pretty soon.
“That’s it?”
“Far as I know.”
“Who were they?”
“Don’t know. They’re all, from what I
hear, now about the size of your average charcoal briquette.”
“What about the other people?”
“The famous passengers who supposedly ran off into the brush?”
“Yeah.”
“Somebody’s imagination.”
“Whose?”
“You ready for this?”
“Shoot.”
“The one, the only! Donna Zitzer.”
Samson let out a laugh. If there was one person who lived inside the Creek who could be counted on to turn a small story into a whopper, it was Donna the Zit.
Zitzer had been married to one of the Vats, Craig Zitzer, a melancholy man who’d died shortly after Peter took up residence at the Creek, a man who probably welcomed his escape from the world more than anyone could. A man who some thought was driven to his death by the antics and harmless but annoying rantings of his wife. Peter, in a show of typical compassion for the displaced, allowed the Zit to continue to live in a one-bedroom apartment on the grounds, her ability to fend for herself in the society beyond the fences beyond possibility.
To supplement her pension benefits and to keep her out of trouble, she was given a job of sorts, a position on the support staff assigned to the Cathedral. Eventually she developed a small niche, an expertise, concerning the candles that decorated the altar and stood at the feet of the six shrines, seeming to have a sixth sense when it came to knowing when a given votive light would extinguish itself, when a replacement had to be provided for the next soul seeking an edge for themselves or a loved one with those who lived in greater mansions than the one Peter called home. Zitzer always knew who had lit what, always had an opinion about why they had and when it came right down to it, was the single best source of gossip within the 2,500 acres.
She could always be found lunchtime at Prince’s in the Village, and during any given break a score of people would drop by her table—where she always ate her salads alone—to say hello and perhaps confirm a rumor about something or someone they’d stumbled upon during the previous 24 hours. Carter was no exception. He’d occasionally check with the Zit when he couldn’t pin the latest innuendo and once even suggested to Samson that they hire her to work for the Party. As long as she didn’t talk about the spirits she often saw when she was working alone late nights in the Cathedral. As long as she didn’t discuss the conversations she had with the angels who regularly dropped in out of the heavens during her long walks around the perimeter. As long as she didn’t refer to Peter as: “my close friend and confidant.”
“Can you imagine that?” Carter asked. “That chick reporter from CCNN…”
“Neri?”
“Yeah, Neri.”
“CCNN got its info from Zitzer?”
“I can’t wait to see how they wiggle out of this one on the 5:00 news. I’ll bet they don’t even mention it again.” He paused. “Great source for a report on invasion forces at the Creek, huh?”
“Are we letting the Federales in?”
“Not right now. Valenti and Calvello are doing their ‘let’s save PMR from an assassination attempt’ routine. They figure they ain’t got enough juice after their Guralski thing faded into thin air so I figure they want to milk this mishap for all it’s worth.”
“What about the Level Five?”
“Down to Three. It’s all bullshit, Ter. The only thing to fear, here, is you pricks at Administration. Talk to you later, buddy.”
As soon as he hung up, the phone rang again. GenCom. Security was now at Level Two, the recorded voice stated. Normal activities could be resumed.
Samson walked to the den and recommended Angelique leave through the back door. She said she wanted to talk more. He responded they could talk later, that he needed to get back to his office. She pressed for a time. The most he could offer was maybe later in the evening, asking for her number.
He walked her to the door that he opened and stepped through, a brisk spring wind washing around him. He looked back toward Administration, its tall tower hidden by the trees surrounding the south end of the lake.
She smiled, then edged in front of him, close enough to place her cool hands at the back of his neck, the fingers just touching either side of his tense spine. She kneaded the muscles, then slowly pulled him in, releasing his neck and taking his face in her hands.
As their lips touched, she purred, “You really liked me in that black robe, didn’t you?”
Chapter Eleven
“Can I get you anything before I leave, Secretary Samson?” Esposito asked as she peeked into the office. “I’ve got to get to Marcy’s retirement party.”
“Hmm?” he replied, looking away from the monitor.
“Can I get you anything?”
He glanced at his watch. It was 6:00 p.m. He rubbed his eyes. “Uh, no Beetsee. Thanks. See you tomorrow.”
Even though he’d been back for hours, he’d accomplished nothing. None of the files in the cabinets he’d opened with the large key ring she’d provided held much of interest. If he had a few months to page through the mass of data he might have discovered something to help him to find what the project was about but the paper files, only coded with numbers, gave little to go on.
Instead, he’d passed most of his time staring at the menu and trying to trick the machine into giving him an easy answer. No luck.
The phone chirped. “Party. Samson,” he answered.
“Oh?”
Had to be Rosalita. “Administration. Samson,” he corrected.
“Not sure?”
Too soft for Rosalita. Had to be Angelique.
“Still interested in seeing me?” he asked.
“Sure I am, Terry. That’s why I’m calling.”
Didn’t sound like Angelique. But with a versatile voice like hers, one could expect anything.
“How about if I come over and we can have a drink, then continue our conversation?”
“If you want. I don’t know how Pete would feel about that, though. His sister entertaining men in a bedroom at his house?”
“Mary Beth?”
“Yeah, Mary Beth. But I don’t know if he’d like that.”
Samson grinned and glanced out the window, figuring there was a bank filled with tellers running around screaming: He’s overdrawn! He’s overdrawn!
“So what’s up?”
“Seeing the entire Creek has been closed down…”
“Closed down?”
“Yeah. Closed down. Where have you been?”
“Right here. Closed down?”
“Nobody comes in, nobody goes out. Has something to do with that helicopter crash.”
“So canceling out?”
“No. If we can’t go out, maybe we could have dinner here.”
“At the mansion?”
“No, silly. I guess we could but I was thinking one of the places in the Village. Maybe Kuang’s? You like Chinese, if I recall.”
Chinese? Yes. But the idea of having dinner at the mansion was worth pursuing. He’d enjoyed dozens of meals there but the last one seemed ages ago. Before Guralski.
Sometimes it was dinner in the private dining room, the teak table seating 12, Peter always at the head, loosening up between the appetizers and the main course, regaling his guests with anecdotes from the past, present or future. Sometimes it was in the eating area in the kitchen. One time he best recalled was with just Peter and Kim, a large Gino’s Supreme pizza, salads out of the plastic containers and three bottles of vintage Chianti that probably set Castro’s books back a couple hundred bucks.
The one he remembered with most fondness was in the autumn after Kim died, Peter inviting him over for Alaskan lobster tails, garlic bread and Coors, the two of them dining at a fold-up table in the spacious recreation room in front of the television set—the Fighting Illini squeaking past the Wisconsin Badgers. Him beating the spread. The Pontiff wrote an IOU for the $20 loss. The marker was now parked in his safe deposit box at the Vatican Bank.
“Kuang’s? If they’ve got the Creek locked
up, getting a table there would be like trying to build a snowman in the middle of July! How about over there?”
Sanctuary Creek being locked up for the night—the streets rolled up like those in the other mythical small towns of America—was nothing new. It happened on a regular basis; more so lately than during previous years. Between Valenti and Calvello, it was almost expected.
Sometimes it was for obvious reasons: the Council called in, a crisis somewhere else in the world, a crisis somewhere nearby, visiting dignitaries, bad weather. Sometimes it was for obscure reasons: a rumor, a whim, bad weather, bad vibes, bad juju. Samson figured—and most of the staff at Party agreed—it was just Security and the Guard throwing their weight around, making mountains out of molehills to let everyone know who was in charge when it came to controlling the ebb and flow perception within the Creek.
“I guess we could,” she replied. “But I’d really like to go out. You know what I mean? I’m almost sorry that I came back. Something’s strange. It doesn’t feel like it used to.”
“But Kuangs’ll be packed.”
“Terry?” he heard her smile through the phone. “I know I don’t spend as much time as you do around here and I realize… I realize maybe this is phase two of The Pope finds a date for his sister and that maybe you’re not that interested.”
“That’s not true.”
Maybe. Maybe not. On the one hand, he didn’t like the idea of Peter throwing his papal weight around in his personal life any more than he hadn’t liked it when Peter was simply throwing around his archiepiscopal weight around in his private life. On the other hand, Mary Beth that morning had been a break in the clouds on an otherwise overcast day. Or overcast week. Overcast life.
Since Kim died, he’d existed under a perpetual Surrender Dorothy sky. There was Carter who always tried to liven up his monochrome life. He’d gone out on some dates or been the third or fifth or seventh wheel when Chell or one of the other well-meaning wives of friends invited him over. But aside from those isolated instances, he’d virtually kept only personal company. It was almost second nature. Spending time alone, running errands alone, going to movies alone, sleeping alone. It wasn’t that he avoided people or lacked opportunities to meet someone new. It was just that whenever opportunity arose he wasn’t interested. Maybe Peter was right. Maybe? Peter was dead right. He and Mary Beth did have more in common than they did the first time around. A lot more. But…
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