Drummer In the Dark

by T. Davis Bunn

  After meeting yesterday with his regional office staff back in Melbourne, Wynn had caught the last flight to National and gone straight to the Willard—according to his travel agent, the best hotel within walking distance of Capitol Hill. It was a grand old place, full of Federalist grace and lofty heights and gilt. As good a place as any to call home for a while.

  This morning, his entire Washington staff had been present to greet him. Everyone seemed highly intelligent, motivated, sharp, and far more aware of the business of politics than he would ever be. Even his secretary had a degree from Princeton. After a brief run-through of pending business, much of which Wynn had not understood, a staffer had walked him to the Capitol via the underground tunnel system. While inside the concrete maze, Wynn noted dozens of faces that had the vague familiarity of news flashes. All he could think was, sooner or later he was going to have to ask all nine staffers their names again. The aide had guided him into the House chamber, pointed him to Hutchings’ desk, wished him luck, and departed.

  The swearing-in had proceeded swiftly. A few other members had stopped by his desk, shaken his hand, welcomed him to the club. That’s what they called it, or some did. The club. They had all seemed impossibly at home with the place and the proceedings. One had even mentioned how his own desk had once belonged to Samuel Adams. Wynn had seen little beyond the pomp and circumstance and the sea of faces in the visitors’ galleries. He sat and let the process wash over him for an hour or so, then rose to his feet, exchanged nods with the Speaker, and returned to his office overland. He doubted he could even find the tunnels, much less navigate them. Springtime in Washington meant tulips and cherry blossoms, mint-green trees and wind too cold for a supposedly southern city. The flowers were obviously for the tourists. No one else paid them any attention.

  He had arrived in his third-floor office to the sound of ringing phones. They never seemed to stop. He had taken nine calls back to back, the last from the state secretary of commerce with regard to an upcoming bill. Wynn had duly taken notes and then lost the page. These had been followed by two subcommittee meetings. Thankfully, nobody seemed to expect him to do more than show up, look through his papers, and shake a few hands. He had returned to his office and demanded time for a solitary lunch. His chief of staff had immediately brought in the stack of position papers for him to peruse. A little light reading to go with his chicken Caesar roll.

  Two minutes.

  His suite of offices were quietly efficient and never silent. C-Span crooned the political equivalent of Muzak, a constant background drone. The outer office was tightly involved in work he did not know enough to question. Perhaps it was just their way of welcoming him, everyone occupied with something critically important. But Wynn didn’t think so. Their message seemed clear enough; he was an interchangeable cog. No matter who sat in his high-backed leather seat, the business of power would keep rolling along.

  Tension hummed in time to the overhead fluorescents. The office furniture was a hodgepodge of styles and decades. His secretary possessed a tiny alcove behind the reception counter. His chief of staff, a singularly unattractive man with the Florida cracker name of Carter Styles, had the only other private office, attached to the back of the reception area and possessing a much-envied dirty window. The suite’s other room contained five cramped staffers.

  Wynn’s own office was comparatively luxurious. It boasted a rich blue carpet, two paneled walls, built-in glass-fronted display cases, and a less shopworn desk. A burnished state seal hung over the doorway. State and national flags stood to either side of the big windows behind him. From a collection of photographs on the trophy wall, Hutchings brooded worriedly over the governor’s choice of replacement.

  Wynn was examining Hutchings’ expression when the phone rang. He glanced at his watch. Right on time. He saluted the former congressman with the receiver and announced for himself alone, Guilty as charged. “Yes?”

  “Jackson Taylor is on line three.”

  “Who?”

  An incredulous pause. “Mr. Taylor, Congressman. Chairman of the party.”

  “Oh. Right.” No doubt this would become another tidbit to pass around the office. Further evidence of his utter ignorance. “Fine.”

  “And Senator Trilling’s office called again. The third time today. They say it is imperative that you spare the senator fifteen minutes.”

  “Can I fit it in?”

  This was clearly a more appropriate question. “There are no votes scheduled for this afternoon’s session, Congressman.”

  “Book it.” He glanced at the pile of embossed cards by his phone. “Are all these invitations for me?”

  “Yes sir.” A slight lilt came to her voice. “Apparently word is out about your arrival.”

  The pile was a half-inch thick, the engraving expensive, the titles and the places awesome. “Anything I should pay particular attention to here?”

  “The one on top is a reception tonight. To greet the new British ambassador.”

  Certainly better than returning to his empty hotel rooms. “Would you call and say I’ll be there?”

  “Yes sir. And the White House just called. They ask if you could please stop by today at four.”

  “Does this happen every day?”

  “Sir?”

  “Never mind. Line three, did you say?” He punched the button before she could respond. “Bryant.”

  “Wynn Bryant, as I live and breathe. You probably don’t remember me. I’ll bet a boatload of tarpon you don’t have the first tiny idea who you’re talking to.”

  “The only Jackson Taylor I know couldn’t have caught a tarpon with a stick of dynamite and radar. If that Jackson Taylor has landed this job, then it’s time I packed up and went home.”

  “No you don’t, son. No you don’t. We need you too much up here.” A professional’s voice, polished as a putting green. “Can you spare me ten minutes?”

  “You got it.”

  “Have your people point you down here, but leave the dogs at home. Time for a little one-on-one.”

  PARTY HEADQUARTERS held an intensity similar to his own office, the staffers hustling about putting out their own five-alarm fires. Wynn gave his name and was ushered into the chairman’s outer office. He’d scarcely had time to seat himself before a familiar voice said, “Wynn Bryant. I swear, politics makes for some strange bedfellows, don’t she?”

  Jackson Taylor approached with hand so outstretched the fingers looked splayed backward. “When I heard Grant was putting you up for the job, my first thought was, whoa, don’t know if I’ve got it in me to go another fifteen rounds against this man.” He swallowed Wynn’s hand in a beefy grip. Up close Taylor smelled of some expensive fragrance and shone with a dedicated golfer’s tan. “Then I recollected the face and the stories and I thought, shoot, Grant’s done caught himself a winner here.”

  Taylor turned to include the pair of people emerging from his office, an elegant older gentleman and a young aide. “Last time I saw this man, he was walking off with fifty-eight and three-quarter million of my dollars.”

  “You got off light,” Wynn said, unable to hide the remembered burn. “The judge was going to cook you.”

  To the elegant man in the doorway, Taylor went on, “Little bitsy company down Orlando way, first thing I ever heard of them was how they were busy suing us in federal court. Old Wynn here claimed we’d been engaging in unfair competition.”

  “Which you had.” Bribery and commercial extortion to prevent their clients from using Wynn’s newer products, not to mention encroaching on Wynn’s patents. Wynn’s company had been bought out as part of the settlement.

  “Water under the dam, old son.” Jackson Taylor gripped Wynn’s arm, giving him a power massage. “You got rich in the process, am I right or am I right.”

  “Didn’t get a nickel that wasn’t ours.”

  The older gentleman spoke with the bored nasal twang of old New England money. “Sounds like you two have a number of old battle
s to discuss, Jackson.”

  “No time for that. We got too many wars in the right here and right now. Don’t we, Wynn.”

  “We’ll leave you to it, then.” The gentleman started forward, trailed by his aide. “Good to see you again, Jackson. Congressman.”

  “Appreciate the check, John. You don’t know how much it means, counting on people like you in our hour of dire need.”

  Wynn watched Taylor give the gentleman a two-handed farewell, then allowed himself to be ushered inside. To his left was the most amazing power wall Wynn had ever seen. There must have been a hundred photographs, including five different presidents. “I think some of those people are dead.”

  “Don’t let on.” Taylor motioned him into a chair. “You take coffee?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.” To his right, a trophy case held every party memorabilia known to man, most of it gilded. On its top, a full-winged eagle came in for a sterling silver landing. “This is some place you’ve got here.”

  “Yeah, it’s all Washington.” Jackson Taylor had formerly been CEO of a Fortune Twenty company, one division of which had been the largest competitor of Wynn’s own firm. “How about this now. The two of us sitting here, talking like two old buddies ready to take on the world.”

  “Never thought it would happen,” Wynn agreed. “None of it.”

  Taylor leaned forward. “We are allies, aren’t we, old son?”

  Wynn found more warmth in the gaze of the deer mounted on Jackson’s wall. “Like you said, Jackson, I got rich off the battle.”

  “There you go then.” He leaned back, satisfied. “My secretary’s made you a list of critical issues coming up. And some related files. You want me to messenger them over?”

  “Sure. Don’t know when I’m going to read them, though.”

  “Yeah, this place will bury you in paper if you let it. Have your staffers give them a look-see, hit the high spots for you.” The smile resurfaced. “Talked with the boys. Wanted you to know we’re ready to bankroll your next election.”

  “I’m just a caretaker, Jackson. In and out in eighteen months.”

  The grin broadened, creasing the tanned skin around his dead eyes. “Give the town a few weeks. This kind of power has an infectious quality. Besides, you’re our kind of man.”

  “What kind is that?”

  “A fighter and a winner. I’ve heard how you handled yourself through the election, tossed in the deep end and swimming hard. I’ve seen enough to know you’re a natural for politics.”

  “Is that what you wanted to meet with me about?”

  “Partly. Mostly I wanted a little face-time, find out how we’re going to get on.” The eyes tried for warmth. “I think we’re gonna do just fine, don’t you?”

  “Swell.” Wynn started to rise. “Thanks for having me over, Jackson.”

  “Don’t mention it.” The chairman rose with him. “Tell me something, Wynn. You got any plans for the Jubilee Amendment?”

  “All I know is, Grant wants to see it killed.”

  “Not just Grant, old son. Not by a long shot.” He offered his hand. “That mean you’re going to vote it down?”

  Wynn accepted the meaty handshake, spoke carefully. “The governor stressed to me how important it was to have this item killed.”

  “Stomp down with both feet, bury this snake in the dust.” He guided Wynn toward the door, massaging his hand so hard the bones ground together. “Any plans for housecleaning in your office?”

  Wynn broke the grip with a downward shove. “I just got here, Jackson. Give me a break.”

  “A word to the wise. Nobody around here’d be sorry to see Carter Styles sent packing. The guy was a buddy of Hutchings from back home, and he’s been a mistake from the start. One businessman to another, Carter is a liability you don’t need. He’s offended too many people, and for no good reason.”

  3

  Wednesday

  WEDNESDAY MORNING Jackie sipped tea from a mock Ball jar, the kind with a handle. The clear glass revealed a wildflower yellow too beautiful to hide inside a mug. She had been up long enough for any more coffee to be offensive, but she was no closer to answers. She stepped out her front door and reveled in a wind strong enough to shove her around. Her garage apartment was surrounded by Florida oaks now turned cross and agitated. She took a deep breath and tasted a faint trace of something found only within sea-laden storms. Jackie liked to think it was a remembrance of liberation and times that still lay easy on her soul.

  She was drawn back inside by a ringing phone. It was Neva, the closest thing she had to a friend at work. “I must have tried to reach you a dozen times yesterday. Me and the boss both. Your phone stayed busy the whole time.”

  “Sorry, I was on the internet.” Hooked into the web, searching for clues. This after spending most of the previous night going through the information Esther Hutchings had given her. The preliminary review had been sketchy but compelling. As a member of Congress, Graham Hutchings had made numerous inquiries into the uncontrolled and increasingly rampant activities of the international currency traders and hedge funds—the subject of Jackie’s unfinished thesis. Hutchings had documented occasions when the funds had wreaked havoc with national economies. He specifically named several huge funds that had played these currencies like chips on a roulette table. The list of investment banks and hedge funds was almost smothered in hand-written notes, but the top name made Jackie’s blood run cold. Hayek.

  She had then gone on-line and searched out data on specific activities. She had not been looking for answers so much as keeping her hands busy while her mind tried to fit itself around this new juncture in her life. She used several search engines, their names springing up from the past, painful as splinters to her heart. All the work she had put into her own research, all the hopes, all the despair at having to push it aside when Preston became ill and the money ran out.

  The final site she stumbled upon had been locked behind e-barriers, requiring her first to request entry and then download a questionnaire. The queries had reflected a group who were either very serious or seriously frightened. Her last act before logging off at one o’clock in the morning had been to send a preliminary response, introducing herself.

  “I should have called in,” Jackie told Neva. “But to be honest, I didn’t know what to tell you.”

  This was not Neva’s problem. “You better have a serious case of the never-get-overs, girl. Else I’m supposed to ask where you want us to mail your final check.”

  “I’ve been offered another job.”

  Neva brightened. “Always said you were too good for this grind. Doing what?”

  “Investigation.”

  “You got your license and you didn’t tell me?”

  “I don’t need it for this.”

  “So tell.”

  “I’m being offered a ton of money by some rich old lady. She’s given me this fancy contract, calls me an independent consultant. Wants me to check out something related to my studies.” Neva was the only person at work who knew the whole tale of Jackie’s former life, and about her brother. Not to mention about her ex-fiancé, Shane, the ultimate destroyer of dreams. “I wish I knew what to do.”

  “Wait, let me work on this a minute. Somebody’s come by, offered you a job that’ll get you out of this hole, and says they’ll pay you a heap of cash. And you’ve spent all day hanging in between?” She gave Jackie a chance to come back, then said, “What am I missing from this picture?”

  “Come on, Neva. How often do things like this happen without a serious catch?”

  “All the time, girl.”

  “Not to me. This looks like just another chance for life to stab me with what I see but can’t ever have.”

  “So you’re turning it down?”

  Jackie wanted desperately to return to the safety of aiming low. But she was bored to tears with life and aching for change. She had not realized how much until the sleepless hours before dawn, lying there with the darkness illu
minated by her fears. “You know what my problem is? I want things too much. All it takes is a tiny glimpse of everything I’ve never had, and I go up in flames.”

  “What kind of answer is that?”

  She was saved from further confessions by a knock on her door. “Hang on a second.” She set down her phone and walked over to where a UPS delivery man stood outside her screen door. “Can I help you?”

  “You can if you’re Ms. Havilland.” When he held up his packet she realized it was ringing. “It’s been doing this for the past thirty minutes. Maybe it’s a bomb.”

  “Right.” She unlatched the door, signed his electronic clipboard, and accepted the package. “Rid the world of a pair who really matter.”

  She ripped the pull-tag, reached inside, came up with an ultraslim cellphone. She pushed the button and raised it to her ear. “Hello?”

  It was the frosty matriarch from Boca Raton. “Where are you?”

  “Standing in my doorway, staring at a delivery man’s dental work.”

  “They promised delivery at nine. It’s almost half past. If I pay for a service I expect precision.”

  “We run on Florida time down here. That’s something all the money in the world can’t change. Hold on just a moment.” She walked back over to her other phone and told Neva, “I have to go.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll speak with the man, remind him of how you walk on water round here. See if maybe he’ll give you enough time to check this thing out.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Just go find some good luck for both of us. And keep in touch, you hear?”

  She set down one phone, picked up the other. Cradled it a moment. Wishing for more clarity than the day offered. Beyond her front window the trees rocked and shuddered beneath a steadily growing wind. “All right.”

  “I tried all yesterday to reach you.”

  “My place only has one line. I’ve been on it trying to research your problem.”