by David Zeman
When he got home from work Kraig dialed Karen Embry’s home number. He got her voice mail.
“Please leave messages for Karen Embry at the sound of the tone,”said the recording.
Kraig waited for the tone. “Karen, this is Kraig. I’ve been doing some thinking, and I’d like to talk to you about those thoughts of yours. About Boston. Please call me back as soon as you can. I’ll be here till 5A .M. tomorrow, then at my office. Ask them to beep me if you need to get through.” He repeated the two numbers and hung up.
Kraig took a long shower and did some yoga exercises, which were supposed to relax him but did not. He was tempted to drive over to Karen’s apartment and wait for her to come home. But he knew she might be out of the city, even out of the country. There was nothing to do but wait.
He put on a CD of Mozart piano sonatas, opened the bottle of bourbon, and poured himself a drink. He did not remember until the nutty taste of the liquor touched his lips that he was not a bourbon drinker. Scotch was his drink.
The explanation came to him easily. A Freudian slip—he had wished Karen was here with him. If she was here it would be she who drank the bourbon.
He poured the liquor down the drain and got into bed. He lay staring at the ceiling.
He smelled the faint aroma of Karen’s body on his pillow. The night Karen slept with him here, she had wanted to tell him something. He had sensed it, but had not tried to draw her out. In the end she had not told him. Probably because she was tired of his skepticism about her theories.
He wished she was here now. He would hold her in his arms, savoring the tender feel of her undernourished body. But this time, instead of feeling her kisses on his lips, he would hear the secrets she carried in her mind. “Tell me what you know,” he would ask. And her answer would be more powerful than any caress.
With that thought in his mind Kraig surprised himself by falling into a heavy, dreamless sleep. The Mozart played on, piano notes tolling unheard like omens in the darkness.
————
JUDD CAMPBELL paid a visit to Michael at the Georgetown house after the arrival of the package from the kidnappers.
Michael was surrounded by a phalanx of government agents. He said little, but looked at Judd with an unforgettable expression in his eyes. It was obvious Michael believed Susan was dead, and that he had caused her death.
“Hang in there, son,” Judd said, hugging Michael. “It’s not time to give up yet.”
Seeing the look in his son’s eyes, Judd wondered where Michael had found the courage to refuse the kidnappers’ demand. Frankly, Michael’s decision puzzled Judd. It seemed out of character. Judd had feared that Michael would use Susan as an excuse to refuse the president’s nomination, and perhaps to quit politics altogether. The opposite had happened. Michael was still the nominee, and Susan’s captors were free to kill her if they wished. Had perhaps already killed her.
Judd understood what Michael had said in his public statement. Understood it politically, understood it historically. Michael was right. A stand had to be taken against terrorism. This was a new century. Civilized governments could not allow terrorists to hold the world hostage for the next hundred years. It was time to bear down.
The decision made logical sense. Indeed, it was the decision Judd would have wished for, given his ambition for Michael. Judd did not want anything to stop Michael from becoming vice president this year.
But it still seemed strange. It didn’t seem like Michael. For the first time in his memory, Judd had the odd feeling that he didn’t completely know his son.
And now Judd recalled where he had seen that empty, hopeless expression on Michael’s face before. It was when Margery died.
Michael had been home from Choate that weekend, and Judd had been delayed getting back from a business trip. Margery had picked Michael up at the airport and made him dinner Friday night. Ingrid was away that night for some reason, and Stewart was off at college. Ingrid had promised to return by Saturday night, when Judd would be home. The family would have dinner together.
Saturday afternoon Margery committed suicide. The call from the police reached Judd aboard his private jet, midway between Chicago and home. Judd was 25,000 feet above the land when he learned that his world had collapsed. Michael, they told him, had found Margery hanging from a beam in her bedroom in the Chesapeake Bay house.
Judd arrived home just after dark. The police had already removed Margery’s body. Though in a state of shock himself, Judd had helped Ingrid put Michael to bed. The family physician wanted to give Michael a sedative, but Michael refused. Michael wore an expression of empty stubbornness, as though he were clinging to something the others could not see. For weeks after Margery’s death Judd and Ingrid kept a close eye on Michael. The police social worker thought he was a serious risk for suicide.
It was that expression of rigid emptiness, devoid of all hope, that Michael had worn today.
With this thought Judd Campbell hung his head. If Susan had gone the way of Margery, it would be the end of his world.
————
COLIN GOSS sat across his executive desk from the chief operative in charge of his private Susan Campbell investigation. Alongside him sat the agent whose responsibility was intelligence about the official investigation.
“Were there any signs of violence on the clothes?” he asked. “Blood? Semen?”
“Nothing,” said the agent. “I have that from the very top. No sign of violence.”
“All right,” Goss said. “We proceed as though she were alive. Where do the intelligence agencies stand?”
“They have nothing concrete except the voiceprint to prove it was Susan Campbell on the phone,” the man said. “They’re stumped as to the identity of the other voice. They’re concentrating on computer enhancement of the tape and analysis of background sounds to try to find where it was recorded.”
“No more?” Goss asked. “Who do they suspect?”
“You, among others,” the man said. “They believe you’ll be the one to benefit in the event Campbell withdraws. They have men assigned to your organization, but it’s leading nowhere. They’re also checking all the major terrorist groups and all the major political figures, especially the right wing.”
“And they’ve learned . . . ?”
“Nothing.”
“Good work,” Goss said. “You can go now. I’ll call you tonight.”
“Yes, sir.”
The younger man left. Goss’s eyes were on the chief investigator.
“All right,” he said. “Where do we stand?”
The investigator, a white-haired man in his fifties who looked more like a banker than a detective, did not open the file he had brought with him.
“I’m concerned,” he said. “We can’t find anyone with a political basis for this abduction. Nor can we find anyone with a personal grudge against Campbell. That forces me to consider the connection between yourself and Campbell.”
Goss nodded. This operative had worked for Goss for thirty years and knew of Goss’s connection to Michael. He had to know, for he had been responsible for covering up certain events associated with the connection.
“What are your thoughts?” Goss asked.
“If we assume that the people who abducted Mrs. Campbell are aware of your plans, we should also assume that they know something about the past,” the man said. “It never hurts to assume the worst. Let’s say they know about the early days. About Boston, for instance, or Atlanta, or even Connecticut. Their real target might be you.”
“Meaning what?” Goss probed.
“Their intent may have been to keep Campbell out of the White House as a means of stopping you,” the detective said. “And now that Campbell has refused to withdraw—”
“What are you getting at?” Goss asked irritably.
“Again, to assume the worst,” the agent said, “suppose they haven’t abducted Susan Campbell simply in order to hold her as a hostage. Suppose they’ve told her
some of what they know about her husband.”
Goss raised an eyebrow. This had not occurred to him. He nodded slowly. It was not for nothing that he paid this man $300,000 a year.
“I see,” Goss said. “In that case . . .”
“In that case she is more dangerous to us free than the abductors are now,” the detective said. “It would be one thing for Campbell to withdraw. It would be another thing if Mrs. Campbell came home in possession of that knowledge.”
Goss nodded. “Point taken. Good thinking. I’ll speak to Michael myself. What else have you got?”
“We haven’t got a name,” the man said. “But as you know, there were families of the—of past subjects, experimental subjects. And friends. Boyfriends . . . There are a lot of possibilities there. Someone who has a grudge. Someone who somehow caught on to the larger plan, and sees Campbell’s role in it. Someone who saw a way to throw a monkey wrench, and did it.”
He frowned. “Some of the subjects survived,” he added. “That is a concern.”
“I see,” Goss said. “Yes, there is a lot of territory. You’ll just have to cover it.”
“We’re working as fast as we can,” the detective said. He cleared his throat. “You got my report about the Seattle situation,” he said.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“We found no evidence that Broderick gave anything away. But the fact remains that the reporter did query her. That’s one door open to the past already.”
“Get rid of the reporter,” Goss said.
“That will be difficult,” the other man replied. “She’s got the CIA on her tail. Apparently that article she published got them interested. Her apartment is bugged and there are agents following her. We could make an attempt, but it might draw fire from the intelligence community. That would be dangerous.”
Goss thought for a moment. “All right, wait on that. But if Mrs. Campbell is still alive, I want to know where. And if we get there first—”
“Of course, sir. Total coverage.”
“I want no mistakes,” Goss warned. “No foul-ups. No matter what happens, the larger plan remains intact.”
“Absolutely.”
“All right. Thank you for your thoughts. We’ll talk tonight.”
“Yes, sir.” The man got up and left the office.
Colin Goss sat behind his desk, thinking.
He had no doubts about Michael, of course. He would trust Michael with his life. But the wife was another matter. She had been a problem all along. She was unstable, neurotic. Her actions could not be predicted.
Such uncertainty could not be permitted at this stage.
That was why Goss had just signed Susan Campbell’s death warrant.
70
—————
JUSTINE ENTERED the room to see Susan sitting under the lamp reading.
“You’re looking well today,” she said. “You must be sleeping better.”
Susan closed the book, a paperback of the old Anne Tyler novelDinner at the Homesick Restaurant . She smiled. “Yes, I did sleep well.”
Justine glanced around the room. It was still a closed-up prison with a lock on the outside of the door, but it looked more domestic now. Susan’s books were scattered here and there, and she had taken to spending more time in the chair than on the bed. The exercise bike had had some use.
Susan was also taking more care about her appearance, putting on makeup and fixing her hair. There was an air of deliberate competence and even optimism about her. She was pulling herself together, she was refusing to be destroyed by what was happening. This was as Justine had intended. She knew Susan was a strong person underneath her neurotic exterior. Justine had taken that strength into her plans from the beginning.
“Time is running short,” Justine said. “They’re going to find us soon. I need to know if I can count on you.”
“Count on me?” Susan asked.
Justine sat down on the end of the bed. “I need to know what your thoughts are. What you believe.”
Susan looked away. She seemed deep in thought. When she looked back at Justine her eyes were sad.
“I believe you are a sincere person,” she said. “A good person. I believe that some of what you have told me is true. But,” she took a deep breath, “I don’t believe what you’ve said about Michael. I can’t.”
She looked at Justine, who was nodding understandingly.
“I’m his wife,” Susan said. “I took a vow to love him. I do love him. I can’t just accept what you’ve told me. It isn’t Michael.”
Justine stood up.
“I understand,” she said. “I wouldn’t ask you to break your vow without proof.”
A shudder went through Susan. She looked up fearfully at her captor.
“Proof?” she asked in a small voice.
“Sit on the bed.” Justine moved aside.
Susan sat on the bed. She looked childlike at that moment, her hands folded in her lap.
Justine put a tape into the VCR and turned on the television. An image of a girl’s face filled the screen. Her head was pushed down against a cushion. Her eyes were blank, almost lifeless.
The camera pulled back to show her bound to a leather-covered apparatus like the one Justine had described. She was naked. She was positioned so that her backside was presented upward, her head down.
A naked man was approaching her, his back to the camera. He was blindfolded. He had both hands out, as though feeling his way. The sound track was garbled, but laughter and music could be heard, as well as the noisy clink of glasses. Men’s voices were shouting encouragement and instructions to him.
“Warmer!”
“Colder!”
Susan’s breath had caught in her throat. Her hands were clasped hard.
She had recognized him.
He was young. He had a handsome body, with straight shoulders, powerful back muscles, firm buttocks, a slim waist, and long, perfectly formed legs, the legs of an athlete.
One of his outstretched hands held a tail dangling from his fingers toward the floor.
In the center of his back, curving slightly from right to left, was a scar.
“The scar dates the picture,” Justine said. “He had his first surgery when he was at Choate. That’s the scar you see here. It extends from the second to the twelfth thoracic vertebrae. The second surgery was done in the spring of his junior year at Harvard. They had to go deeper into the lumbar spine the second time, because the Harrington procedure had failed and they needed to insert another metal rod.”
Susan was sitting in silence, staring at the screen on which Michael was making his way across the room. She watched the handsome young limbs move as the tail dangled from his hand.
The quality of the video was not very good, but the scar stood out powerfully, a badge of pain, of surgical invasion, and of fame. It was that scar, lengthened after the second operation, that had made Michael Campbell a household name.
Susan knew that scar well. She had seen it when she waited with Michael in the hospital for the second surgery. He had not wanted to show it to her, but she insisted, telling him she wanted to feel his pain, wanted to know him in his vulnerability.
Her love for Michael had dawned when he was in his hospital bed, a frightened young man wondering whether the defect in his spine was going to make him an invalid. Her love had grown and flowered as she helped him through his pain and watched him pull himself together. Her love had become final when she watched him win the race at the Olympics and saw his teammates help him out of the pool. By now her love was as much a part of her as that scar was part of Michael.
And he had done this to these helpless girls, tortured them, destroyed them. Some of it happened after Susan already knew him.
Susan covered her eyes. Tears were running down her cheeks.
“No more,” she said. “Please, Justine.”
She heard laughter on the videotape. Something made her open her eyes and look.
Michael had found
his way to the helpless girl and was pinning the tail to her upraised buttocks. He was hard between his legs. He was smiling. Voices were shouting approval. The blindfold was coming off as he sank to his knees.
Susan covered her eyes again.
“My God,” she said. “How could you?”
Justine let the tape play. She watched with a look of remote curiosity in her eyes.
Susan, not looking at the screen, heard the drunken voices on the tape shouting “Mike! Mike!”
When the tape was finished Justine stopped it and turned off the TV. Susan was curled on her side in a fetal position, looking almost as helpless as the girl on the video.
Justine came to Susan’s side and petted her shoulder. “Good girl,” she said. “Brave girl. I’m proud of you.”
Susan did not look up.
“I understand your pain,” Justine said, firmness vying with the sympathy in her voice. “It’s a terrible burden. His mother killed herself when she found out what he was.”
Susan did not protest against these words. She wept quietly against the comforter.
“Brave girl,” Justine repeated, bending over her captive. “I asked a lot of you. You came through.”
With a cry of despair Susan curled her hands around Justine’s back and wept on her breast.
71
—————
April 18
6:30P .M.
KAREN WAS at Washington National Airport.
Her flight from Atlanta had arrived on time. She took the shuttle to the long-term parking lot.
Her trip had been a failure. She had found two sources close to The Goss Organization who might have known if Justine Lawrence or a person of her description had ever worked for the corporation or been involved, however tangentially, with its more powerful officers.
Neither source had panned out. There was no evidence to support Karen’s theory that Justine had spent time in Atlanta in an effort to infiltrate The Goss Organization. And there was no time to pursue the line of reasoning any further.
Her call to Patricia Broderick in Seattle had not been answered. She had held out the hope that Pat, as a Goss intimate, might be able to direct her to the right people in Atlanta or elsewhere. She would try Pat again, perhaps tomorrow.