For the first time since February, Chad went to sleep that night with hope in his heart that the next day would be better than the last.
CHAPTER 27
Roulade
VANESSA LOOKED UP FROM her gilt-edged plate and forced a smile for Father. She’d been nothing more than a captive the past few weeks, locked in her room on Buckhouser's sprawling west Texas ranch. Every day was the same: wake up, lay in bed for a while, wait for breakfast to show up via the maid—never a butler—then lounge around reading, listening to music, or watching recorded TV until the next meal.
Every other day, Father would grace her with his presence for dinner with the Texas billionaire who owned the ranch and some of his select guests. The faces rotated out and she never saw the same people twice. Vanessa recognized a few politicians like the Senator from Tennessee and the Speaker of the House but few others. The maid who delivered her breakfast let it slip one day there were a couple movie stars in residence as well.
She picked at her dandelion salad—the hickory vinaigrette dressing was fantastic, but it was still a plate of weeds. Vanessa eyed the meat puck perched on the bed of dandelion greens.
“What is that again?” she asked, pointing at the rude-looking thing with a golden fork.
“It’s a roulade, dear,” Father said around a mouthful of the pink, rolled-up meat. “Salmon,” he mumbled. “Tad under-cooked, but delicious. Try some.”
Vanessa stared at the chilled meat discus and pouted. “Why am I stuck in my room all day?” She blew out her breath and slumped forward. “I’m bored out of my mind.”
Father looked up from his food and pointed his fork at her. “But no one else has died lately, have they?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “No one who matters.”
The senator looked at the ceiling as he chewed. He sat back and deliberately placed his fork on the table. “Leave it be, Vanessa.”
She laughed without humor and cut a slice off the meat puck. “I don’t even know if she’s still alive. You won’t let me have my phone—”
“Won’t do any good,” he said, tucking into his lunch once more. “All the networks are down.” He took a bite of the fresh honey-wheat bread.
“My God, this is divine. You should try the bread, too.”
“Trying to fatten me up, now?” she asked, eyes on the piece of salmon on her fork, wrapped around another type of meat encased in clear gelatin.
“You need to keep your appearances up. Just because the campaign's suspended pending the resolution of this outbreak—”
“Pandemic,” she corrected, popping the roulade into her mouth. She chewed the rubbery morsel and forced herself to give it a chance.
Father stared at her a long moment. “When it passes…and it will—these things always do,” he said, gesturing with his fork again, “we’ll jump right back on the trail. We'll film commercials and…Vanessa? Is everything all right?”
"Oh, my God,” she muttered, “this is amazing.”
Father smiled. “See? I told you.”
She swallowed and cut free another piece of the triple meat dish, examining the construction of the roulade. “I know it’s salmon on the outside…is that chicken in there?”
“Rabbit. Oh and wild boar if I’m not mistaken,” he replied with a smile.
Wild boar. Her mother loved wild boar. The meat tasted a little sweeter than pork with a hint of nutty flavor that Vanessa loved. Thinking of her mother again turned the food to ash in her mouth. She lowered her fork to the plate.
“Why hasn't she arrived yet?”
Father sighed and dropped his utensils with a clatter. “Must we go over this again?” He glared at her as he threw his napkin down over the remains of his meal.
Vanessa gripped her fork and knife with white knuckles. “Yes, this again. You said you'd sent your plane home to pick her up. It's been weeks and we haven't heard anything."
"I know, Sugarplum. The silence is hard." He stood from the table. "I've hired people to find her. With the martial law declaration, air travel is extremely difficult—even for someone of my means. Communication across the country isn't as easy as lifting a phone anymore." He moved to the bar and nodded at the guard who began to pour a drink for him.
"If you'd focus on her a little more than this campaign, maybe we'd find her!" blurted Vanessa.
Senator Brant stared at his daughter, ignoring the dark-skinned guard who held a fresh drink. After a moment, Father finally accepted the glass and walked back to the table. The merry tinkle of ice grated on Vanessa's nerves. He took a sip and passed behind her.
“Do you have any idea how much I want to be president?” he whispered.
Vanessa looked down at the plate and caught Father’s reflection in her crystal goblet. He stood behind her, staring at the ceiling.
“I know, Father.”
“Do you? I wonder,” he said before noisily sipping his drink. “I have sacrificed years to this job—decades, in fact. Tirelessly slaving for the interests of my constituents…”
Vanessa smirked at her food. Right, it's all about your constituents…
She thought back to all the times in her youth she’d seen Father come home from some party or function with lipstick on his neck in a color that didn’t match Mother’s. She thought of the times he’d canceled family vacations to spend time on the private islands of lobbyists who relentlessly courted the Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. Vanessa thought of the underhanded gifts of wine, food, travel, and money Father brought home.
Yeah, you’ve sacrificed. Mother watched it all for years and never said a word.
Sudden guilt swelled within her. He may have flaunted the fruits of his legal bribery, but Vanessa had thrived on it. She'd been the recipient of lavish birthday parties, new cars every year since she got her license, horses, and fantasy summer vacations. All the while, her mother stood silent while the senator used her in photo shoots and pushed her aside as soon as her presence was inconvenient.
And now he’s pushed her aside again…for me…and she’ll never come back.
“…more beautiful than your mother ever was,” Father said as he placed a warm hand on her bare shoulder.
Vanessa tensed but didn’t move. Since she shoved Roger over the railing, the mere touch of Father's hands sent a chill down her spine. He’d covered up the murder like it was nothing more than scooping up after a dog—a necessary chore.
“And these numbers, Vanessa," Father said, "you wouldn’t believe the approval rating I’m getting when you’re by my side. The producers are drooling over the first sweep of commercials we’ve got lined up…I'll likely get the sympathy vote now too, with Isobel's unfortunate disappearance."
Numbers, commercials, producers—he talked about things as if she were a piece of livestock at a county fair, trotted out and led around to help him reach his goals. She closed her eyes as his manicured hand slowly slid up her shoulder to the graceful curve of her neck. His fingertips swirled over her skin in time with the ice in his glass.
“We can be something special, you and I,” he whispered.
She gripped the utensils in her hands even tighter as his hand traced her neck. His strong fingers slipped around her throat while his thumb massaged the nape of her neck. He squeezed ever so slightly.
You threw her away like the leftovers on your plate. And now you’re doing this in front of him? Her blue eyes blazed as she stared at the guard. He'd been the only one to survive their escape from the hotel in Dallas. He watched her with all the excitement of watching paint dry.
“Stand up,” Father said, his voice slightly slurred.
Vanessa blinked. What was in that drink? Her eyes locked on the guard. Father usually took five or six drinks before he started slurring his words. The guard inclined his head so slightly that she wasn't sure she'd even seen the movement.
“Stand up and lemme…” Father belched softly. “Let me…” his hand tightened around her neck.
Rage c
oursed through her veins. Mother is dead, I know it. You did this. She closed her eyes—she knew better than to show any weakness in front of him. Gritting her teeth, she remembered how callously he’d dealt with Roger’s death.
Father hadn’t even cared when she’d told him of the attempted rape. He was more concerned with the scandal the death might bring to his campaign, as if the media cared about anything but the flu at the moment.
She felt herself stand, as if she were inside someone else and just along for the ride. He mumbled drunkenly in her ear and whispered things she couldn’t bring herself to hear.
You killed my mother—my best friend—the only person in my life I felt a real connection with…and you killed her because you can't take a break from politics. Not even now.
Vanessa realized two things as she gained her feet. One, she would never be free of the darkness that surrounded Father—he’d trapped her neatly in his web of lies and corruption. Two, she still held her steak knife.
“…nothing you can do about it now…he’s going to watch…” Father said, slopping his drink over the table as he pointed.
The guard, dressed in a black suit and tie, showed no emotion at all.
I’ll give him something to watch.
She turned to face Father and felt nothing but revulsion. He smiled down at her, drained his glass, and put it down on the wet table top.
“Glenfiddich,” he said hoarsely. “Wonderful…”
“Don’t you care about Mother at all?” she asked desperately.
“Of course," he said as he pulled her toward him. "She's going to bring the sympathy vote, remember?"
It was the last straw. Vanessa closed her eyes and moved forward but brought the knife with her. She felt a moment of resistance as the tip of the blade pierced first his shirt, then his flesh. As the resistance built, she jerked her arm up with all the strength she could muster and felt the knife slice through muscle and tissue until her fingers grew wet and warm with blood.
The Senior Senator from Washington State tried to scream but Vanessa was quicker. She slapped her free hand over his mouth pushed her hips off the table, knocking them both to the floor. The knife came out again and again, the blade flashing red against Father’s white shirt. He thrashed and writhed but she straddled him and ignored his increasingly feeble attempts to knock her aside. She felt the strength flow from his body as she screamed.
Vanessa yelled at him for all the torment she’d lived through under his reign, she cursed his soul for what he did to her mother, she raged against a childhood stolen on the campaign trail.
She lost track of time and jerked upright when strong hands gently pulled her away from the body. She spun around and brought the knife up but the guard disarmed her with a flick of his wrist. He kept his eyes locked on hers.
“It is over now,” he said as he led her to a seat away from the mess on the floor.
She sat in the chair he offered. Her red hands trembled on the polished mahogany table. Somewhere in the barely functioning part of her mind, she recognized his accent as North African.
“I…” she stuttered.
The chisel-faced guard watched her for a moment, then dropped the knife on the floor and pulled a cell phone out of his coat pocket. He glanced at the Senator's body, dialed a number, and put the phone to his ear.
“Yes,” he said after a moment in his lilting accent. “It is me. Senator Brant is dead.”
Vanessa gasped quietly, staring at her hands. The blood was so dark, like she'd spilled a thick merlot. I killed him…
He looked at her. “I speak the truth…yes, his daughter.”
She covered her face with her hands, not caring if Father’s blood ruined her makeup.
“Yes,” the African said again. “A steak knife.” He grunted at something said over the phone. "I agree…yes. He has her outside, ready to bring in."
Something hard and plastic bumped her wrist. She looked up through the tears to see the guard offer the phone to her.
“You have a call, Miss Brant.”
“W-what?” she sobbed.
He nudged her with the phone again and grunted. She took it with bloody hands and brought it to her ear.
“Hello?” she whispered.
“You have caused a verra big problem for me, Miss Brant,” said a voice with a distinctly Scottish burr. “Senator Brant—your father—was a valuable member of my organization.”
“He…” she cleared her throat. “He was a valuable member of many organizations,” Vanessa hissed.
The voice laughed, polite, but bitter. “You've no idea, love.” Whoever was on the phone sighed. “Put me in a tight spot you have. The good Senator—”
Vanessa snorted in derision.
“—as Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee shall be quite difficult to replace on short notice. In your single moment of passion,” the voice said, a verbal sneer coming through loud and clear, “you have deprived me of his position and set back my plans in a way sure to cause heads to roll.”
"How inconvenient for you,” she muttered. Vanessa wiped her eyes, frowning at the sticky moisture on her cheeks—Father’s blood.
“Aye, it is, rather. I need to replace him and during the current crisis the right people are extremely hard to find as you can well imagine. And now I need to clean up the mess you’ve made as well. Scandals and what not, eh?”
Vanessa stared at her hand, the blood crusting over her knuckles. Scandals. She sighed. “Yes, well perception is always paramount, isn't it? Good luck with that—I’ve had enough scandals for one week.”
The voice on the line changed and became hard in an instant. “So sorry to hear that my dear, but now you have a debt to pay.”
Vanessa looked at the phone. “I don’t know who you think you are, but I don’t care what you—”
“You will!” snapped the voice. The accent broadened in pace with the volume of his voice. “This situation is untenable. When the authorities discover what happened, you shall be sent away to prison for murder—two murders—”
“How did you…?” she blurted.
“Nevermind,” snapped the voice, “just understand you shall be in a bit more trouble than you think. How long do you think you might last, locked away in some ghastly prison when the flu finds you? And it will—I assure you.”
She stared at the phone and tried to process the threat. “I…”
“You have a choice though," the voice said, softer now. "Join my organization. I shall ensure you face no repercussions over the bodies that seem to appear at your feet.”
“But…” she looked at Father's corpse, then down at the bloody knife on the floor.
“So. You face two lifelong commitments. Summary judgment or service with riches and power—which will it be?”
She glanced at the guard. He casually checked his watch.
“Tick-tock, my dear.”
Her eyes swiveled to the door. She didn’t notice earlier, but now she heard muffled voices out in the hallway. Her pulse quickened. She looked back at the guard who shrugged one shoulder.
A lifetime of prison loomed before her. I can’t do that. She stared at Father's sightless eyes and gripped the phone in slick fingers. "You can keep me out of trouble…for…out of prison?"
The answer was immediate and simple: "I can."
“How? What do I do?”
“Give the phone back to Adisa and follow his instructions. You shall start training immediately. I believe you’ve made the right choice.”
“But—wait, what do I have to do?” She looked at the phone. “Hello? Who are you?”
The guard reached out a hand. She gave him the phone.
“Follow me,” he said as he helped her out of the chair. "They have made the announcement. We must leave."
“Where are we going?”
“To the airport,” he responded in a neutral voice. He raised his wrist to his face and whispered, “It is done. Clear the road.”
As she reache
d the door, one of Buckhouser's security guards entered the room with a woman draped over his shoulder. Vanessa let herself be pulled forward as she stared. Whoever that was just happened to be dressed in the same exact outfit she wore and also had long blonde hair.
"What…who—?"
"Vanessa Brant died with her father tonight. Very sad," her escort said as he paused to look.
She swiveled to face him. "That girl is dead?"
"That girl is you."
Vanessa tried to pull away from her captor's iron grip and caught a glimpse of the body—her body—falling to the carpet with a wet squelch as she was pulled from the room.
“What the hell…?”
“Quiet,” Adisa said as he checked the corridor. "Stop struggling and follow me.”
“But…” she said, trying to see. “That girl is dead—”
“For you,” the guard said. He smirked at her, revealing brilliant white teeth, the first sign of emotion she’d seen from the stone-faced man.
“I have a feeling she will not be the last.”
CHAPTER 28
The Note
BY CHAD'S BEST GUESS, it was the middle of June when everything he'd come to understand as his new normal suddenly changed.
He'd just finished a hearty breakfast of steak and eggs, stir-fried with crispy potato nuggets and a tall glass of orange juice. As usual, he had an entertaining conversation with the silent and newly promoted Sergeant Reeves. Today though, even the normally expressive Garcia looked made of stone.
As he leaned over Chad to pick up the tray of food, Reeves briefly tapped Chad's foot with his own.
"Bathroom," Reeves whispered as he picked up the tray.
"Thank you," Chad said, for the cleanup and the message.
He suffered in silence during the morning's bloodletting as he puzzled over what the new message might be. Lately the notes had been few and mostly centered on the troops' appreciation for what he was voluntarily doing to help with the cure and to beg for information about regions of the country where they had friends and family.
The Source: A Wildfire Prequel Page 17