by Donald Bain
It didn’t happen. He watched the seconds hand slowly sweep across the face of his watch until it read nine forty-six. And nine forty-seven. Nine fifty. Nine fifty-five. Panic set in. Cynthia reached an especially challenging portion of the aria and nailed the high notes, eliciting applause and a few whoops. Smythe felt faint. Why hadn’t the lights gone out? What had happened? Why had Saison failed to trip the appropriate switches that would have sent the blackout cascading down the entire north-eastern grid?
‘You OK, Carlton?’ someone asked, noticing his ashen face. He’d had to lean against a doorjamb to stay on his feet.
‘I’m ah … I ah … sure, I’m fine.’
He went to the staircase and managed to get to his bedroom where he closed the door and sat on the bed. Who could he call? He pictured Dominick Martone and his goons. Martone would be furious, angry enough to kill. Millions of dollars was resting on the money he’d laid out for the blackout information, millions from other organized crime figures. They, too, would be angry enough to want to kill Martone – and Carlton Smythe.
He took deep breaths to calm himself and decided there was nothing he could do at that moment except return downstairs and act as though nothing was wrong. Whether he could pull that off was pure conjecture.
In Manhattan, presidential frontrunner Senator Miles Quinlin had given a rousing speech to a ballroom filled with well-heeled supporters who’d happily written large checks in return for access to him once he was in the White House. He’d come down from the podium and pressed the flesh, going table to table, flashing his winning smile, saying precisely the right thing in ten words or less to each contributor.
‘Time to go, Senator,’ an aide whispered in his ear.
‘Right. Let’s stay on schedule,’ Quinlin said, delivering his final words of appreciation to a donor. He followed his aides, and the two Secret Service agents assigned to protect him, from the room.
Although the senator had entered the Hilton through the front door, it had been arranged for him to make his exit through a back corridor used by hotel staff. His car, and two others, waited outside the door to that corridor, engines running, poised to whisk the candidate to his next event.
One of the agents opened the door and stepped out onto the street, immediately followed by Quinlin, two aides, and the second agent. Waiting for them in a knot of a halfdozen onlookers, who’d seen the cars and reasoned that the senator would come through that door, were two armed members of Tengku’s small cabal. They’d closely monitored their watches. It was precisely nine forty-five when Quinlin emerged from the hotel. Assuming that the streetlights and twin bulbs above the door would instantly go black, the men, standing close to each other, pulled their handguns from the waistbands of their trousers. But in the illumination from the streetlamps, the agent who’d been first through the door spotted the weapons and threw himself at the would-be assassins, knocking both to the ground. The second agent pushed Quinlin to the pavement where an aide fell on top of him.
One of the assassins’ weapons had fallen from his hand and skittered into the gutter. The other managed to raise his handgun and point it at the second agent who’d also drawn his weapon. The agent squeezed off a shot that hit the armed Tengku cohort between the eyes. As the other would-be terrorist scrambled to his feet, a shot caught him in the stomach. He doubled over and pitched face-first onto the hard sidewalk.
Vinnie Tourino was not a happy man when the lights didn’t go out. His crews had been ready to hit their targets the moment it went dark. When it didn’t, they abandoned their planned robberies, although one group had been observed hanging around a Tiffany’s branch and were picked up by the police.
‘That mother-fucking, double-dealing, lying prick Martone,’ he snarled. ‘I’m gonna personally rip his fucking balls off.’
Alphonse from Baltimore and Tony from Philadelphia also had things to say about Dominick Martone, but weren’t as genteel in their choice of words.
Martone also had a generator hooked up to the home’s electrical system, and had expected what Smythe had expected, the house to go dark before the generator came online. When it didn’t happen, he assumed that his watch might have been running fast and patiently continued playing the video game with his grandson. But after ten minutes he went to his study and called Smythe’s home phone number. Mrs Kalich answered, found Smythe, and told him Mr Martone was on the line.
‘He called?’
‘Yes, sir. He said it was urgent.’
A failed operatic baritone had taken his place alongside the pianist and had launched into a heartfelt version of Some Enchanted Evening, made famous in South Pacific by Ezio Pinza, as Smythe took the call in his home office.
‘What the hell is going on, Smythe?’ Martone barked.
‘I don’t know, Dom, and believe me I’d like to know. I’m really upset and—’
‘You lying, conniving bastard,’ Martone said. ‘When I get through with you you’ll be more than upset. You’ll be lucky you can even crawl.’
‘Please, Dom, I—’
Martone’s slamming down of the phone was ear-shattering.
It took until nine fifty-eight for Paul Saison to realize that his vintage watch had stopped. When he finally did, he checked a wall clock, which displayed the correct time. He’d been nipping bourbon from a small silver flask he always carried and was drowsy, having to fight to not doze off in front of the computers he was charged with monitoring.
‘Sacré bleu,’ he muttered as he hauled himself off his chair and headed for the control room. ‘Do this, then do this … first trip the master switch, then the backups … No, first trip the backup switches and …’
The control room was empty. Saison set about going through the drill he’d been repeating to himself over and over. He looked at the clock: ten twelve. He shook his head to clear the fuzziness from his brain. At ten fourteen, he placed his hand on the master switch and pulled. Ear-piercing sirens went off, and emergency lights came to life. As he started to leave, the shift supervisor and two members of the plant’s security team burst into the room.
‘What the hell happened?’ the supervisor shouted.
Saison shrugged, flung his large hands into the air, and started to walk away.
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ his boss said.
‘Hey, why do you say that to me, huh? What do you think, I do something here?’
‘Don’t let him leave,’ the supervisor said as others poured into the room, the warning sirens wailing, multi-colored lights flashing, dozens of voices mingling.
Saison walked to a chair in a corner of the huge room, sat heavily, and lowered his face into his hands.
‘You crazy son-of-a-bitch,’ Saison’s supervisor screamed at him. He turned to the security guards. ‘Don’t let him leave! Tie the son-of-a-bitch up. Shoot him for all I care.’
Saison looked up and extended his hands in a pleading gesture. He babbled in French, his voice rising and falling, cursing, invoking an unseen god, falling into a sing-song wail, twisting in his chair against the handcuffs that bound his ankles to the chair’s legs.
And he cried.
TWENTY-NINE
It was four minutes past ten when the lights went out in Smythe’s house, causing surprised shrieks and a few giggles from the guests. Moments later, the generator was automatically activated and a portion of the house’s lamps, as well as its refrigeration unit, were given new, low-wattage life.
‘How long will the power be off?’ people asked those who were wondering the same thing.
Cynthia Smythe instructed Mrs Kalich to bring candles from the pantry to augment the lamps. ‘Where is Mr Smythe?’ she asked the housekeeper.
‘I don’t know.’
She forgot about her husband as she busied herself entertaining guests. The pianist began a medley of Broadway show tunes, which prompted singers to join in.
As voices were raised in song, Cynthia’s husband was upstairs debating what to do. Martone’s anger
over the phone was palpable. Would he come to the house looking for him? Smythe pondered. He decided he wouldn’t, if only not to embarrass himself in front of Cynthia’s friends from the opera company. But he knew that he had to be prepared for whatever did ensue over the course of the night, and the next day, too.
He hurriedly shoved clothing into the carry-on suitcase he used on his trips, and added a few items from his bathroom. Encouraged by the happy sounds of singing – others would be preoccupied – he went down into the kitchen where a single member of the catering staff worked. Smythe placed the carry-on next to the kitchen door and dropped a dish towel over it. He walked into the living room, forced a smile at those who weren’t gathered around the piano, and stood by a window overlooking the front grounds and the circular driveway in which a number of cars were parked, effectively blocking access from that direction. His mind raced; bile rose from his stomach and burned his mouth. A vision of Paul Saison in a casket came and went.
‘Carlton, come and join in,’ Cynthia called from where she stood behind the pianist, hands on his shoulders.
‘Oh no,’ Smythe said, waving off the suggestion. ‘I’m not a singer and …’
His eyes went to the front of the house again. Headlights from two cars played off the others in the driveway. Smythe came closer to the window and narrowed his eyes. Dominick Martone and four men, including Hugo, got out of the cars and stared at the front door.
An agonized whine came from Smythe as his flight-or-fight instincts kicked into gear. For a moment he considered going to the front door and throwing himself on Martone’s mercy: ‘It’s not my fault, Dom … That drunken Frenchman Saison fouled up … You want to kill him, I’ll go with you and pull the trigger myself.’
Instead, he quickly left the living room where the pianist segued from You Light Up my Life to I’m Beginning to See the Light and went to the kitchen. ‘Be right back,’ he said to Mrs Kalich as he grabbed the carry-on bag, pulled a set of car keys off a rack, went out the door and ran to where his car and Cynthia’s were parked at the rear of the house. He looked down at the keys. He’d taken the ones to her Jaguar instead of his. He got in the Jag, started the engine, and drove slowly up the driveway until reaching where it intersected with the rear street. Everything was dark and quiet. He headed up the road, his eyes as much on his rearview mirror as on the street in front. He had no idea where to go or what to do. He just knew that he had to get away and find time to think.
He drove with care. There were no traffic lights; a few citizens stood at intersections directing traffic. Without thinking about it, he found himself in the parking lot of the building in which he rented space. Cynthia always kept a flashlight in the glove compartment, and Smythe used it to navigate his way into the building and find his way to his office. He placed the hundred thousand dollars he’d kept there in the suitcase along with various papers he thought he might need. He also decided to take the new laptop he’d purchased and placed that in the suitcase along with the money. As a last thought, he removed a stack of hundred dollar bills and shoved them in his pants and jacket pockets.
What to do next?
He had no idea what was happening with Saison. He’d obviously created the blackout, albeit too late to be effective. Was he now on his way to the pool house to collect the two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in the box with his name on it? The thought of him having that money caused Smythe to growl.
The possibility that Saison had been caught in the process of flipping the switches was chilling. If he had been, he’d be grilled about why he’d done it, and Smythe didn’t doubt for a moment that he would tell them that he, Carlton Smythe, had been behind the plan, and that would mean that they would be looking for him.
The flight he’d booked to Buenos Aires left on Sunday. He’d have to lay low until then.
‘No,’ he said aloud. If they were looking for him, they’d check all the airports and airlines. He couldn’t run the risk. It also dawned on him that if they were seeking him, they’d be canvassing for Cynthia’s blue Jaguar.
It was all too much to process at that moment. A wave of exhaustion swept over him. He had to get some rest.
He pulled from the lot and headed for a small motel a few blocks from the office building. He’d noticed it a few times and thought it looked seedy. It wasn’t part of a large chain, and he wondered whether it was one of those hot sheets places used by prostitutes.
He pulled up in front and saw that there were lights on, which meant it had an alternative source of power. He grabbed his carry-on and suitcase and entered the front office.
‘Good to see that you have power,’ he told the older woman behind the desk.
‘Generator’s working,’ she said. ‘Not sure for how long.’
‘I don’t want to continue driving in these conditions,’ Smythe said. ‘Do you have a room?’
‘Yes, I do,’ she said and handed him a registration form. ‘Credit card?’
‘No, no credit card. I’ll pay cash.’
Did she view him suspiciously? If so, she didn’t say anything to indicate it. He handed over the cash and she gave him a key to a room at the far end of the one-story, ten-room complex.
He drove the car to a secluded spot at the rear of the motel, hoping no one would spot it during the night. He entered the room in which a single table lamp on a small desk provided dim illumination. There was the powerful smell of disinfectant; he’d become sensitive to odors after living with Cynthia’s keen nose for so many years. He examined the bedspread, which seemed clean enough, and looked in the bathroom where a leaky faucet had created a rust stain in the sink.
Over the next hour he parted the drapes a dozen times in search of anyone who might be looking for him. Finally he sat at the desk, pulled blank sheets of paper from its drawer, and started to write:
Dear Cynthia,
As I write this, I know how angry you must be and how much you must hate me. I know that I haven’t always been the husband you’d like me to be, and I apologize for anything I’ve done in the past to hurt you. When you get this note I’ll be far away and out of your life. While we have had our problems over the years, I don’t view our marriage in a negative light. Maybe if we’d had children things might have been different, although I don’t think so. Looking to something else, someone else to solve problems never works. The problems were between us, and I’m sorry for those times that I’ve let you down, as I certainly have now.
I’ve done a bad thing and hope it won’t reflect badly on you. I have to live with it, too. I wish you nothing but good things in your life without me, and would be pleased if you found a great guy and got married again. I’ll sign off now.
Love, Carlton
P.S. Sorry I took your car. I didn’t hurt it in any way.
He didn’t undress for bed. He lay on top of the bedspread and dozed off a few times. Once, the sound of the door being slammed in the next room woke him, and the sounds of a couple having sex penetrated the thin wall. It lasted only fifteen minutes. The door slammed again and a car pulled away.
He thought of Gina.
At six the next morning he left the motel and drove to a small diner. The blackout was still in progress and a large, crude sign in front read: Gas Grill & Fridge Working. Smythe noticed as he pulled behind the building that a Rent-a-Wreck lot was next door. As he paid his bill, he asked the owner what was new with the blackout.
‘You’d think those clowns at Power-Can would have it fixed by now,’ the owner said.
‘Is that where the trouble started?’ Smythe asked.
‘Yeah. I heard on my battery-powered radio this morning that some crazy Frenchman at the plant deliberately caused it. Seems he wasn’t the only one involved.’
‘That’s really interesting,’ Smythe said. ‘Did they say who the other people were?’
‘Not that I heard. They ought to toss the bastard and whoever else was with him in jail and throw away the key.’
‘I agree,’ Smyt
he said, a lump in his throat. ‘Thanks for the breakfast. Hope the power comes back on soon.’
He got in the Jaguar, started the engine, and checked the gas. Almost a full tank. He turned on the radio, annoyed with himself that he hadn’t thought to do it earlier, and tuned to CFTR-680 News, Toronto’s twenty-four-hour news station. After a pod of commercials, the newscaster returned.
‘The massive blackout that has crippled all of Eastern Canada and the East Coast of the United States was caused, according to authorities, by the deliberate work of one man, Paul Saison, a French-Canadian engineer at Power-Can where the blackout originated. We’ve been told by reliable sources that Saison has admitted to having sabotaged the plant, and has named others who were also involved, including a former employee, Carlton Smythe. Smythe’s whereabouts are unknown at this point. Stay tuned for further updates on this breaking story.’
Smythe slunk down and emitted a long, slow, painful whine. ‘Oh my God,’ he said. ‘What have I done?’
As he wallowed in self-pity in the luxurious leather seat of the Jag, he looked across the lot at the Rent-a-Wreck one-story building. Its large neon sign had been unlit when he’d arrived. Now, it was glowing. The sign in front of the diner had also come on.
The blackout was over.
Buoyed by that realization – he actually felt proud of those who’d fixed the problem – he got out, took his suitcase with the money and carry-on bag from the trunk, left the key halfway inserted in the ignition, placed the note he’d written to Cynthia on the front seat, and walked to the car rental lot.
‘I see that the power is back,’ he said to the middle-aged man behind the counter.
‘It’s about time,’ the man said gruffly. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I need a car,’ Smythe said.
‘Not a problem.’ He looked at Smythe’s luggage and frowned.
Smythe picked up on it. ‘I had a taxi drop me at the diner next door,’ he said. ‘They had the grill working. I thought I’d have breakfast before walking over here to pick up a car.’