by Glen Carter
“My equipment manager,” Abe said.
Rebecca was about to say something when a tray clattered to the floor behind her. She cursed aloud, pointed them in the general direction of the grounds, and flung herself toward her next victim.
Bolt led the way. They skirted a few rooms not meant for the hired help and eventually exited at the back of the house. The grounds were massive. The odours of barbecuing food wafted across the landscape. Waiters darted among the guests, carrying large silver trays. White tents sprouted up at several spots where you could sit awhile. Take a load off.
Bolt took it all in. Looked for Sarah but didn’t see her. Abe headed for one of the beer tubs. A moment later, three plastic cups were placed before him. He drained one, handed one to Bolt, and grabbed a cup to go. Then he ambled into one of the tents, which had a riser and a clutch of tables.
Bolt got to work plugging in the amp and assembling the mic stand. Abe flicked the latches on his guitar case.
“Hillbilly Shoes,” someone yelled.
Abe grinned. Grabbed his guitar and smoothly strummed a few chords. “Till they walk awhile, a country mile, in my hillbilly shoes.”
The table erupted in applause.
“Name’s Abe, man of a thousand songs. Let’s try something a little closer to my heart.” With that, Abe was belting it out.
Bolt listened for a few minutes, then restlessly he slipped out of the tent and headed for the house. He went back the way they came but this time took a detour through the massive living room. He tried to remain as invisible as he could, dodging guests, head down with no eye contact. When he reached the foyer, he pulled up short.
Rebecca was standing in the doorway, just a few feet away, with a pair of Secret Service agents. This time she was sure to recognize him, even with his salt-and-pepper hat and aviator sunglasses. He considered retreating. It would have been the smart move, though thankfully Rebecca turned her back with the arrival of another car, which meant the agents were momentarily distracted. Bolt launched onto the stairs, two at a time, until he reached the top. He then slipped quietly into a long hallway. There were half a dozen doors and the master bedroom facing him at the end. Sunlight spilled onto a large settee with a woman’s clothes laid on it. Music played, something with a slow, sensual beat. Bolt took another few steps and stopped. The door on his right was open, revealing a large bathroom. Someone was in the shower. He froze in the doorway and wondered how many crimes he was committing. He could back out now and join Abe outside, thereby avoiding arrest. That would have been prudent. Instead, he stepped farther in and shut the door. There was a wine bottle and an empty glass on the vanity. He fixed on a reflection in the mirror above the glassware. A silhouette in the shower. A woman’s form through frosted glass. Bolt watched her. The steam rising. Spilling out across the ceiling. Soapy hands slid across her torso and breasts. He was a shameful voyeur, and it should have bothered him. He took another step. Toward the shower. Music floated from speakers in the ceiling. Bass notes in a steady, slow cadence that suggested some climactic outcome. Two more steps, and then . . . Bolt’s shoes scuffed the floor.
Sarah froze. “William?”
Bolt stood post-like. Mouth clenched shut. Christ, he had violated her most private of places. Slowly, her hand reached for the shower door. Bolt prayed she wouldn’t scream when she saw him. The door slid open, and for a moment, Sarah only stared. There was a feeble attempt to cover herself, but she showed no fear or anger, or anything to suggest she wasn’t good with him being there. The water beat against glass, like tiny little pits against the inside of his skull. Bolt tried to find the appropriate words, knowing there was nothing to do but accept whatever was about to happen.
Then: “Who are you at this moment,” Sarah asked with a wicked grin. “Kallum or Samuel?”
Bolt returned her gaze with the innocence of angels. “Both?”
“Then why don’t you join me?”
For a moment he hesitated, standing there like a criminal and a fool, while Sarah retreated ghost-like into the steam. Even thinking what he was thinking was simply mad. With his face reddening, he undressed quickly and stepped tentatively into the shower. The two of them were naked beneath the hot water. Sarah’s half-lidded eyes feasted on the spectacle of him. It all felt so perfectly natural, without awkwardness or even a hint of wrong. In fact, nothing could stop what was about to happen. Bolt pulled her tight and immediately hardened between her legs. “You’ve probably had too much to drink,” he said through a thick, wet breath. “I don’t want to take advantage.”
“You already have,” Sarah moaned. Her soft lips slid onto his, soapy and warm. Her tongue slipped into his mouth, tickling his. He gripped her tight rear end and lifted her off her feet. Sarah wrapped her long legs around him, and he slipped snugly inside. Pressing her against the glass. Her body quivered with his relentless thrusts. Her wet hair whipped his face. The music advanced to their rhythm. Building with them. It was wonderful how familiar she felt. How easily he anticipated her movements. The tensing of her thighs as he pushed into her. The raw turn-on of fingernails across his back. The intimacy was a daze, an emotional stupor. So smooth, but so jagged. Until the explosion of pleasure gripped them, causing his knees to weaken and Sarah to gasp and to call out a name.
But not his name.
Bolt caught his breath and was about to point out the obvious, which would have been completely justified, when . . .
Sarah went limp.
In Victorian erotica, they called it la petite mort. A doctor would have explained it as too much blood diverted from her brain. Sarah’s arms dangled, her head rolled back. Bolt fought back panic and cradled her tight. The water. Tap, tap, tap against his back.
Then. There was a knock at the bathroom door.
“Sarah?”
It was Rebecca.
“Sarah, are you all right?”
“Wake up,” Bolt hissed, gently shaking her.
“The guests are asking about you,” said Rebecca. “Are you okay?”
Wake up.
“I’m coming in,” Rebecca said.
* * * * *
Abe smiled broadly and bowed. The crowd wanted more, but where in the hell was Bolt? He had disappeared at the start of the set. There were groans as Abe packed away his guitar. He left the stage, grabbed another beer, and headed for the food. He decided the bomb dog had likely snotted all over the fish, so he ordered a hamburger, which he loaded with condiments. Abe stuffed half the burger in his mouth just as a helicopter swept low over the estate. Tents flapped wildly under its downwash, and paper plates and napkins tumbled across the lawn. The aircraft settled slowly to the grass, and a pair of Secret Service agents jumped out.
Thirty seconds later, when the rotors stopped, Senator William Rutter emerged to wild cheers and applause. He smiled as he made his way up the lawn, shaking hands along the way. Abe backed into one of the tents. It took a full fifteen minutes for the glad-handing to wrap up, after which Rutter waved and disappeared inside the house.
Abe drained his beer and searched the crowd. Where in the name of God was Bolt?
* * * * *
The door was locked.
Bolt’s brain spun, his gut cramped up.
Rebecca jiggled the handle. A tiny curse was spoken on the other side of the door.
She wouldn’t stand there forever.
Carefully, Bolt carried Sarah out of the shower and, without a sound, lowered her to the floor. He placed a towel under her head and another over her naked body. Then he leaned in and begged her to wake up. Mercifully, a few seconds later, her eyelids fluttered.
“What happened,” she asked weakly.
“Rebecca’s at the door,” Bolt whispered.
Sarah’s eyes widened. “Invite her in. Though I’m pretty sure she’d be more interested in me than you.”<
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“Sarah,” he whispered, frantically.
“Why are we on the floor?”
Bolt quickly dressed. Then grabbed her housecoat. “I’ll explain later. Put this on.”
Footsteps faded outside. Rebecca was apparently fed up and gone to get help. Bolt seized an escape plan. Out the door and down the hallway. If he were confronted, he’d plead ignorance. Looking for a bathroom and got lost. He was about to go for it. Reached for the handle. Then. Another knock rattled the door. It was a man’s voice this time. “Sarah?”
It was Rutter.
Bolt shrank from the door.
“Sarah, let me in.”
Sarah was taking too long to answer. She was more interested in something in the pocket of her housecoat. There was only one lousy way to avoid being arrested or shot, and Bolt took it.
Seconds later, the door splintered. Two Secret Service agents burst in with hands at their waists.
Sarah screamed.
Both slabs of beef turned red with embarrassment as Sarah tightened her housecoat and glared at them. She tugged a pair of earbuds free. Tinny music blared from them. “You could have knocked,” was all she said.
Bolt was stuffed inside a linen closet, squinting through a slat in the door. His eyes stung with a venomous sweat, and his head buzzed. He took a few slow breaths and tried to convince himself it wasn’t a dream. The shower. The sex. Bolt felt no shame or regret. Even with her husband standing ten feet away, with two armed bodyguards. Not ten seconds later, prayers were answered. There were mumbled apologies, and the agents were told to leave. Then Sarah disappeared from his view, leaving him trapped in the suffocating closet.
Rutter’s voice suddenly boomed in the bedroom. Followed by the sound of a slap and Sarah’s muffled cry.
What Bolt heard next left him no choice.
She called Kallum’s name.
He burst from the closet and stomped into the bedroom, taking a moment to make sense of what he was seeing. Rutter had a leather belt wrapped around his hand. A maniacal glare as he whipped her naked legs. “Fucking bitch,” Rutter growled.
Sarah pulled herself into a ball and cried out again.
Rutter raised his hand for another strike. “No dress today,” he grunted. “You know how it goes.”
Bolt took two steps and was airborne. He hit hard, driving them both onto a night table, which exploded into pieces. Rutter was on his back, with Bolt on top of him. His face full of shock, Rutter swung wildly. The belt rose with a roar, and he brought it down on Bolt’s back. Painfully, Bolt swung, but the blow glanced off Rutter’s head.
Rutter’s eyes were wild. He bucked, sending Bolt flat onto his back. He was twice Bolt’s age, but his strength was phenomenal. Rutter pulled himself to his knees and grabbed for something on the floor. He managed to scoop it up. When Bolt realized what it was, he desperately clawed away.
Rutter raised the weapon in an arc above Bolt’s chest. “Fucking dead man,” he spat.
* * * * *
There was no sign of Bolt.
Abe was worried, so he dumped his guitar case and headed for the door they had come out of earlier. Once inside, he found the living room full of people, everyone having a grand old time with their plastic cups and boozy bullshit.
“Great show,” one of them said.
“I muddle through,” Abe replied, eyes searching the room with no success. He picked his way through the crowd and eventually ended up in the foyer. What were the chances Bolt had gone up that staircase? God help him if he had, since the lord of the manor was now in residence. Screw it. Abe humped up the stairs and moved to a hallway on his right. He did a two-step to the opening and carefully listened. Then, to stop a bloody murder, he pounded down the hallway and into the bedroom.
Rutter hovered above Bolt, muttering and spitting like a madman. Splintered wood was everywhere. Sarah was frantically trying to tear something out of Rutter’s hands. A goddamn pair of scissors. Abe bounded to the bed and grabbed the only thing he could, and with a sickening crack, he swung it into the side of Rutter’s head. The man rolled off, out like a light.
Bolt gasped his thanks.
Abe helped him to his feet. “Not bad for a Vegas boy.”
Bolt pointed at Rutter’s thick leather belt.
Abe spied the hurt in Sarah’s eyes. He tightened a fist and moved toward the unconscious form.
“No, Abe,” Sarah pleaded.
He pulled back, reluctantly.
Sarah ran to the window. “They’ll be coming for him.”
“We need a laptop,” said Bolt.
Sarah dashed away.
Abe scanned the room. Then walked over and ripped the cord from the curtains. “Help me get the fucker up.”
They hoisted Rutter’s limp body into a chair, and Abe used some fancy sailor’s knot to tie him up. “The more he struggles, the tighter it’ll get.”
“Nice work.”
“You okay?”
“Scared shitless. How about you?”
“Ditto.”
“This is for Sarah.”
“For Kallum, too,” said Abe.
Rutter moaned. A string of drool slid from his mouth and pooled on his shirt. Abe circled him like a croupier at a baccarat table. Clenching and unclenching his fists. “He hated Kallum because he was the better, stronger man. He couldn’t live with it.”
“Sarah was his revenge.”
“Murder was his revenge,” Abe said sourly. “I had a bad feeling about him from the get-go. I told Kallum to watch his back.” He bent over, casually lifted one of Rutter’s eyelids. “I think he’s coming around.” Abe tugged the knot and stepped back. “Let’s show the guy why Kallum is still the better, stronger man.”
Bolt nodded.
Sarah walked in, her housecoat shed for jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. The sight of Rutter trussed in a chair brought a wicked smile to her face. She held out a laptop, without a question.
It was time. Bolt led her into the hallway, struggling to find the right way to say it. Sarah listened closely. Every word registered on her face, in the tautness of her lips, and in her sad eyes, the pools of everything. When Bolt finished, Sarah stood as if frozen in time. Then, in a flash, she was gone.
By the time Bolt realized what was happening, she had the scissors in her hands and Abe had her in a bear hug. She squirmed viciously, a mass of fury, cursing and swinging.
It took too long to calm her down. Time was running out, and through the damn buzzing in his head, Bolt painfully took stock of their situation. They had pushed their way into the man’s house. A candidate for president. He had enjoyed sex with his drunk wife, and then they’d beaten the man into unconsciousness. If they survived, they’d spend the rest of their lives in prison. Bolt took a thumb drive from his pocket. “Wake him up.”
Sarah left again, returning a moment later with her wineglass full of water. With relish, she splashed it into Rutter’s face, which brought him around. He struggled against the ropes, weakly at first, then with more force. His head rose slowly, dopey eyes settled on some point in space. “What happened,” he slurred.
No one spoke. He’d need time to reset his brain.
After a minute. “You were beating your wife,” Bolt said matter-of-factly. “I couldn’t allow you to do that.”
“Hey, Billy,” Abe chimed in. “Sorry about your lamp. How’s your head?”
Rutter’s face twisted up. “You fat prick. Get the hell out of my house.”
“Sticks and stones and all that.”
Bolt tried to shake away the buzzing. He opened the laptop and plugged in the thumb drive. “We need you to see something, Billy,” he said.
Rutter tried to focus on Bolt’s face. It took a minute. “Who did Doody fuck to produce you?” he asked.
>
Sarah’s fingers tightened around the wineglass. “Don’t listen to him. Play the video, Samuel.”
“Are you sure?”
“Play the goddamn video.”
Bolt brought the file up on the laptop screen and hit play.
* * * * *
David Stoffer looked at his watch while pinching the knotted muscles at the back of his neck. The senator had a damn speech to make. The network newscasts were an hour away, and things were behind schedule. Five more minutes, he decided. Then he’d send Rebecca up to tell the senator his guests were getting restless and drunk. The Texan had found a guitar and was wailing out some hillbilly tune in one of the tents. An audience was singing along, sloshing beer everywhere. The bartenders were pouring two at a time and restocking the big tubs as fast as they could. Five more minutes. That was all.
Rebecca made her way through the rabble to where he was standing. Tapping her clipboard.
“I know,” Stoffer said.
“The reporters have deadlines.”
“Go get him,” he replied.
Rebecca didn’t move. “You know the rules.”
Of course he did. They were his. She handled the senator’s wife. But never the senator. That was Stoffer’s job.
Walk awhile, a country mile, in my hillbilly shoes.
“Where did he get the bloody guitar?” Stoffer asked.
Rebecca checked her clipboard. “The entertainment,” she replied. “A fat guy with his equipment manager. Sarah put them on the list. A quartet had to be cancelled. At full cost, I might add.”
Stoffer snatched the clipboard and brought a finger down the list of names. He stopped at the bottom and brought it closer to his face. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he snarled.
Rebecca was about to say something when Stoffer pushed the clipboard at her and stomped toward the house.
The Texan wailed another irritating lyric. “Someone shut that idiot up,” Stoffer yelled.
* * * * *
The crack of bullets filled the room, one after another, as Rutter sat tied to the chair, with the laptop at his mug. Watching the video without saying a word. His face cold and blank.