by Sandra Brown
“Clothing designers line up, begging for the opportunity to outfit you. You travel on Air Force One, and have access to several yachts. A fleet of chauffeured limousines is at your disposal. An entire nation and half the rest of the world adores you.” He reached out to stroke her thigh. “It’s no wonder you’re so miserable, Vanessa.”
She slapped his hand away. “Why didn’t you just break my heart years ago, David? When I was young and helplessly in love, why didn’t you abuse my love then and be done with it?”
“Because it’s been fun to be the monster in your fairytale life. You think you’re miserable, Vanessa, but you don’t know what misery is. Misery is being poor, and helpless to do anything about it. Misery is living with two stinking drunks who make no secret of despising you just for being born, and knock you around for amusement.
“You grew up rich. Every goddamn thing you ever wanted was handed to you on a silver platter. You never had to beg or scrape or even wish for a single thing in your whole fucking life.”
“Is that why you’re punishing me?” she cried incredulously. “Because as a child I had more advantages than you?”
“No,” he said evenly, “I’m punishing you because you spread your legs for a man I trusted and called my friend. That,” he said scornfully, pointing toward the vee between her thighs, “caused him to betray me.” His voice had risen and his face had become congested with rage.
“You betrayed me first,” she shouted. “With dozens of other women. Hundreds, maybe. God knows how many.” Her hands formed tight fists of anger and despair. “I worshiped you, David. I was sixteen when you joined Daddy’s campaign. I couldn’t wait to grow up so I could marry you. I’ve always loved you. The only reason I broke my marriage vows was to hurt you.
“Despite the other women, I wanted our marriage to last. Even after I learned about your vasectomy and realized that the baby wasn’t yours, I was willing to make a clean start. I wanted us to be in love again.”
David began to laugh, shaking his head sadly, indulgently. “Vanessa, I was never in love with you. Do you really think that if your name had been anything other than Armbruster I would have shackled myself for life to a stupid, shallow, sick bitch like you?”
She took in a quick breath and expelled it on a broken sob. Seeing his cold, implacable heartlessness, she wondered how she had ever been suckered in. What an amazing talent he had for charming people—her, her father, a nation of voters.
“You’re evil,” she said.
“And you’re crazy. Anybody who knows you knows that.” He brushed her aside as he rose from the bed and reached for his robe.
Vanessa gripped the back of a chair. “I’m not as stupid and shallow as you seem to think. I won’t let you get away with trying to murder me.”
“Careful, Vanessa,” he said softly. “Threatening the President of the United States is a serious crime.”
“I don’t care what they do to me. I’m going to destroy you.”
“Is that so?”
When he came toward her, it was difficult not to cower, but she stood her ground.
Until he backhanded her across the face.
She fell against the wall, holding her hand to her cheekbone, which felt like it was dismantling beneath her skin.
“Never threaten me again, Vanessa. You’ll do nothing except continue being the vapid, obedient nonentity you’ve always been, first for your father, then for me.
“And speaking of Clete, don’t imagine that you can topple me without dragging him down, too. He’s been in on every crooked deal in Washington since the Johnson administration. You can’t destroy me without destroying Daddy dear in the bargain. So call all the goddamn reporters you want, and drop hints about malcontent in the White House, but be prepared to see the end of Senator Clete Armbruster.”
He strode to the door, but got in a parting shot. “At one time you were a pretty good piece of ass. Now, you’re not even that.”
* * *
He walked quickly across the corridor to his own bedroom, giving cursory nods to the Secret Service agents who wished him a good night. Even though he’d won the round with Vanessa—and it hadn’t even been a close contest—he’d come away from it angry. The problem of what to do about her was still unresolved.
God damn that nurse!
His bed had been turned down. The nightstand lamp was low. The chamber looked intimate and inviting. He thought about summoning one of his regulars, the syndicated columnist who was a strong advocate of women’s rights in print but whose blow jobs were legendary. She thought that being sneaked into the White House was a big turn-on and usually rewarded him well for the thrill. But Vanessa’s whining had squelched his desire. Which only gave him more justification to be steamed.
He poured himself a glass of water, added a dash of whiskey to it, and carried the glass into the bathroom. He brushed his teeth, rinsed, and spat into the sink. When he reached for his whiskey-spiked water, he caught movement behind him in the mirror.
As he spun around, the glass slipped from his hand and shattered onto the floor. Clutching his chest, he fell back against the sink.
“Mr. President. You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“Jesus.” David sank down onto the commode. He was trembling. “I thought you were dead.”
Spencer Martin leaned negligently against the doorjamb. For all his nonchalance, he looked worse for wear. His clothes were Kmart stock and appeared new, but he was unshaven, and it looked as though he hadn’t showered or washed his hair in weeks.
Having recovered from his initial shock, David said, “Where in hell have you been? You look like shit. Smell like it too.”
“Before making good my escape, I lay in my own waste for several days.”
“Your escape from what?”
“I think the pioneers quaintly referred to it as a root cellar. Actually it’s a hole in the ground—in this case, beneath the barn of your friend and mine, Gray Bondurant.” Spence sneered. “Can you believe it? That motherfucker shot me.”
David listened as Spence described the casual breakfast they’d shared. “He admitted Barrie Travis had been to see him, but apparently he was on to me from the beginning. He got off a shot before I could fire.” His lips narrowed to a thin, bitter line. “He’s going to regret not killing me when he had the chance. Being the Boy Scout he is, he didn’t aim to kill.”
“What happened then?”
“He packed my shoulder wound, stripped me naked, trussed me up like a Thanksgiving turkey, and placed me in the cellar. My hands were tied, but I could reach the food and water with my mouth. If I rationed it well, it was enough to last for several weeks. Just before he closed the door on me, he reminded me that I had aced survival training. ‘So survive, you son of a bitch,’ he said.
“The gunshot wound was painful, but I knew that if it didn’t get infected, it wasn’t life-threatening. It took me twenty-four hours—I’m guessing—to get my hands free. He knew I would eventually, but he also knew it would take me a while, if ever, to get out.
“The area was about eight feet square. The ceiling was about four inches above my head, and from the ceiling to the barn floor was a foot of hardpacked earth supported by lodgepoles. Of course, I didn’t know that until I got out.”
“What about the door?”
“Wood. But he’d placed two steel I-beams over it. I suppose they were leftovers from the construction of the house. He’d drilled three holes into the door for ventilation. The beams were placed parallel, about an inch and a half apart, just the diameter of the air holes, lengthwise along the door. Then he’d scattered hay over them. A casual observer would never have noticed.”
“I sent a man out there.”
“One of mine?” When David nodded, Spence said, “Then he’s dead meat. He should have gone over every square inch of that place.”
“How’d you get out?”
“I clawed my way. The food—dry pasta and bread mostly, some cereal—
didn’t provide me anything to work with.”
“What about the water containers?”
“Styrofoam. No lids, no straws. I had nothing but these,” he said, holding up his hands. “Eventually I was able to create a hole, outside the perimeter of the door and away from the beams, large enough for me to wiggle through. If the ceiling of the cellar had been any higher, I couldn’t have reached it. There was nothing to stand on except my bare feet.”
“Lucky for you the barn floor wasn’t concrete.”
“Gray built that place on the site of a pioneer home, and probably wanted to preserve some of its character.” Spence grinned, but it was a chilling expression. “He’s always been stupidly sentimental.”
“He’s here, you know.”
“I figured.”
David told Spence about his unannounced visit from Gray Bondurant, then filled him in on the events that had taken place during his absence. “It was damn rotten luck,” he said of Jayne Gaston’s death. “George was gradually increasing Vanessa’s dosage of lithium, but recording what it should have been. When he ordered a stronger sedative, the nurse staged a revolt. He tried to have her forcibly removed. She went into cardiac arrest and died. Then your favorite reporter, and mine—”
“I know,” Spence said. “I read the article in the Post and couldn’t believe she was still among the living. Nobody could have walked away from that explosion, David.”
“Her dog went into the townhouse ahead of her.”
“Talk about rotten luck.”
“After the incident in Shinlin, Clete is on her case. She’s been publicly humiliated and professionally trashed. Hopefully, she’s learned her lesson.”
“Hopefully, but she’s a slow learner.”
“You’re right.” David nodded solemnly. “What about Gray?”
“For now, I think my return should be kept our secret, don’t you?”
“But surely you were seen coming in tonight.”
“I’ll have the guards told that keeping my return confidential is a matter of national security. My men will circulate the rumor that there’ve been threats made on the life of the First Lady—something to that effect.”
“That’s good. It’ll serve our purpose.”
Spence looked at him. “Then you’re still committed to it?”
David, thinking back on the recent scene with Vanessa, said, “More than ever. I’ve been with her tonight. She’s still obsessed with the baby’s death. Our problem hasn’t gone away.”
Spence, looking directly into his own reflection in the mirror above the sink, said, “Then we have a lot of work to do.”
“First things first.” David rose. “I can’t tell you how much I missed you, or how glad I am to have you back. Now please, for God’s sake, take a bath.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Ms. Travis, your conduct is inexcusable.”
“I’m well aware of the magnitude of my mistake, Mr. Jenkins. It’s been a humiliating experience for me.”
Frowning sternly, WVUE’s general manager continued. “Senator Armbruster called—personally—to give me his version of what happened. His account was even more detailed than the news stories. I listened with increasing dismay over your rank unprofessionalism, and I’m flabbergasted to know that an employee of this station could behave in such a manner.”
“I regret causing you and WVUE any embarrassment. If I could undo it, I would.”
It was in her best interest to appear penitent, and she was, for the mistake she’d made. But she resented Armbruster going behind her back and tattling as though she were a wayward child. If he’d had more to say to her, he should have said it to her face.
“Compared to the enormity of your error, the consequences were minimal. Thank God. The President’s press conference helped to put the incident in perspective.”
“Yes, sir, it did.”
“All’s well that ends well.”
This chirping comment came from Howie Fripp, who’d been called in on the carpet with her. Up till now he’d been gnawing on a hangnail and sweating rings into the underarms of his dingy white shirt. Barrie knew that his anxiety wasn’t for her. He cared only about his own hide and how intact it would be when the general manager was finished.
Jenkins pounced. “It was you who actually dispatched the cameraman, wasn’t it, Fripp?”
“Uh, yeah, but only because Barrie called and told me to. She said she was sitting on the story of the century.”
“God forbid,” Jenkins said.
It stuck in her craw, but she felt obligated to defend Howie. “Howie can’t be held responsible, Mr. Jenkins. I called him at home and asked him to dispatch a photographer.” Her cheeks grew hot beneath the general manager’s baleful stare. “One of the many decisions I’ve come to regret.”
She regretted it because having the media there had turned a bad situation into a disaster. But that call also twinged her conscience because it had been made out of spite. She’d been miffed at Gray for rejecting her expression of sympathy. She’d never been a Clete Armbruster fan. As to Vanessa, until Barrie had been swept up into a phantom intrigue that threatened her life, she had looked upon the First Lady with barely concealed derision. And, as long as she was being honest with herself, she confessed to feeling jealous of Vanessa because Gray was still in love with her.
So when Barrie dialed Howie and delivered her urgent message that night, she hadn’t been feeling charitable toward any of them. Exit objectivity.
Oh, the call had been justified. Selfish, maybe, but justified. Given that set of circumstances, no reporter in the history of journalism would have failed to call for backup. It could have been the story that launched her career into superstardom.
In retrospect, however, it made her appear as insensitive as a dyspeptic vulture. She supposed she was getting her just deserts.
Jenkins said, “Armbruster could sue our ass nine ways from Sunday over this, and frankly, I couldn’t blame him if he did.”
“Senator Armbruster had good reason to be upset,” Barrie said meekly. “I put him through several minutes of hell, for which I apologized profusely. I’ve also called the White House numerous times, hoping to personally make amends to the President and First Lady. They refuse to take my calls.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Howie muttered.
Jenkins shot him a dirty look.
Barrie continued, “I wish to let President and Mrs. Merritt know how grievously I regret my mistake and to apologize for any distress I might have caused them.”
“Very noble of you, Ms. Travis. But if and when they accept your call, do not represent yourself as an employee of WVUE.” He clasped his hands together on his desktop and looked at her levelly. “As of now, your association with this television station is terminated.”
She had fervently feared this. Just as fervently, she had denied that it could actually happen. While dealing with the more immediate repercussions of her blunder, she’d managed to hold off her dread of dismissal. Now, she was forced to confront the reality of it.
“I’m fired?”
“You have one hour to clear out your desk and leave the building.”
“Please reconsider, Mr. Jenkins. I’ve learned my lesson. From now on, I’ll be scrupulously careful. I’ll check out every fact.”
“It’s too late, Ms. Travis. Nothing you say will change my mind.”
She threw herself on his mercy. “You know about my townhouse.”
“Yes. Bad timing.”
“I need my job.”
“I’m sorry. The decision has been made.”
Her mind in chaos, she began grasping at straws. “Okay, take me off the street and keep me in the newsroom.”
“Ms. Travis—”
“I’ll write copy. I’ll edit scripts. I’ll answer the telephone, run the teleprompter, deliver the mail, go for sandwiches. It’ll be like probation. Then in a few months you can reevaluate me.”
“Please, don’t embarrass y
ourself further,” he said in the firm but kindly voice one reserves for the hopelessly doomed. “You no longer fit in with our program.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that your standards don’t meet ours. It means that you haven’t lived up to our expectations of you. It means that I’m terminating you for an accumulation of offenses, not just for this one in particular.”
“Bullshit.”
Howie winced.
Jenkins looked rather taken aback himself. “I beg your pardon?”
“Why don’t you try being a man about it, Jenkins? Admit the real reason you’re firing me—because Armbruster demanded my head on a platter.”
Jenkins’s face turned red, letting her know she’d hit the nail on the head. She stood up and pulled herself to her full height. “You’ve got it backward, Jenkins. This piddling TV station with its second-rate reputation and chickenshit management no longer fits in with my program.”
* * *
“Want fries with that?”
Barrie considered the fat and calorie content of the french fries against her craving for them. “Sure. Why not? Large.”
She paid for the take-out cheeseburger and fries and returned to her car. She was dining alone tonight. After months of encouraging Daily to get out more, he had chosen tonight to heed her advice, and had accepted the invitation of an old newsroom crony to go to a Brigitte Bardot film festival.
“Is he driving you?” Anytime he went out alone, especially after dark, she worried about him.
“Yes, Mother. He’s picking me up and bringing me home. And before you ask, I’ll check my oxygen tank and make sure it’s full, although if I pant over the young Bardot as much as I hope to, I might run out of air before I get home. And if I jerk off, I’ll die gasping, but happy.”