by Nora Roberts
“How touching.” Sam moved behind the desk again. Opening a drawer he took out a cigarette. He allowed himself only five a day, and only in private. In today’s political climate, smoking was a liability. He might have been well ahead in the polls, but he wasn’t a man to take chances with his image. “So, you want to spend time with the old man while he dies.” Sam lighted the cigarette, took one deep satisfying drag. “Why in hell should I care?”
“I know—I don’t expect you to care. I hoped that since it would be for such a short time. A couple of months.” Luke looked up again, his eyes full of pleas. “I don’t see how it could matter to you.”
“You’re wrong. Everything about you, everything about the Nouvelles will always matter to me. Do you know why?” His fierce grin spread into a snarl. “You, none of you, recognized what I had, who I was. You took me in out of pity and tossed me out in disgust. And you thought you were better. You were nothing but common thieves, but you thought you were better than me.”
The old anger reared up, nearly choking him. It was the hate that had ripened with it which kept his voice clear.
“But you weren’t, were you?” he continued. “You’re left without a home, even without a country, and the Nouvelles are saddled with a pathetic old man who can’t remember his own name. But here I am, Callahan. Rich, successful, admired and on my way to the top.”
Luke had to remind himself of the plan, the long term, the satisfaction of a clever sting. Otherwise he might have leaped up then and there and twisted Sam’s neck. Because part of what Sam had said was true. Luke had no home. And Max had lost his identity.
“You have everything you want.” Luke kept his shoulders slumped. “I’m only asking for a few weeks.”
“You figure that’s all the old man has left in him?” Sam sighed, and tipped back his brandy. “A pity. I actually hope he lives a long time yet, a long, long time with his mind vegetating, his body shriveling and the entire situation pulling the heart out of his family.”
He smiled suddenly, the glossy politician’s smile that lured voters. “I know all about Alzheimer’s. More than you might imagine. As I was inspired by Max’s predicament, part of my platform has been lending a sympathetic, even a compassionate ear to families dealing with the care and feeding of loved ones with minds like a turnip. Ah!” He laughed at the sudden flash in Luke’s eyes. “That offends you. Insults your sensibilities. Well, let me tell you something, Callahan, I don’t give a damn about Maximillian Nouvelle or any of the others like him. Turnips don’t vote. But don’t worry, once I’m elected, we’ll continue the . . . illusion,” he decided, enjoying the irony of the word. “We’ll continue to make promises—even keep a few of them—about research and state funding, because I know how to plan for the long term.”
He settled back and let himself project, opening himself to the one man Sam was certain could do nothing to harm him. “The Senate seat’s only the next step—the next step toward the White House. Another decade, and I’ll have won it all. Once I have control, complete control, things will be run my way. The bleeding hearts will be bled dry, and all those whining special-interest groups can whine themselves into oblivion. In the next century Americans will learn that they have a leader who understands control and power. A leader who knows how to use both and isn’t afraid of taking some losses when he does.”
His voice had risen, like an evangelist who is bent on saving souls. Luke watched in silence while Sam drew himself in. Sooner or later he would snap, Luke mused. God help us all if Wyatt had any buttons under his thumb when he did.
Sam drew on the cigarette again, then focused back on Luke as he tamped it out. “But I don’t imagine you’re interested in politics or the fate of a nation. Your interests are more personal.”
“I made some money over the last few years.” Wanting Sam to see nerves, Luke moistened his lips. “I’ll pay you, give you whatever you want for a few weeks with Max and the Nouvelles.”
“Money?” Delighted, Sam threw back his head and laughed. “Do I look like I need your money? Have you any idea how much I rake in every month in campaign contributions? That’s over and above what I have from my lovely wife.”
“But if you had more you—you could increase your television campaign, or whatever it took to make sure the election went your way.”
“It’s going my way,” Sam snapped. His eyes went wide and bright. “Do you want to see the fucking numbers? The people of this state want me, Callahan. They want Sam Wyatt. After I’m finished with him, they wouldn’t elect Curtis Gunner dog catcher. I’m winning.” He slapped his hands on the desk, scattering ash. “I’m winning.”
“A million dollars,” Luke blurted out. “Surely you could use a million dollars to make sure. I only want a little time in exchange. Then I’ll disappear again. Even if I wanted to stay, if I tried, Roxanne wouldn’t have me.” He bowed his head, a man defeated. “She’s made that clear.”
“Has she?” Sam drummed his fingers on the desk. He was calm again. He knew it was important to stay calm. Just as it was important to exploit whatever advantages came your way. “So you’ve seen her.”
“In D.C. I went to her show.” Fear radiated from him as he glanced up. “Only for a moment. I couldn’t stop myself.”
“And your course of true love hit another bump?” Nothing could have pleased him more. But he wondered, because he knew quite a bit about Roxanne, and a small boy named Nathaniel. “And did she catch you up on the highlights of her life during your absence?”
“She would barely speak to me,” Luke whispered. “I hurt her, and since I can’t explain why I left, she isn’t about to forgive me.”
Better and better, Sam thought. He didn’t know about the child. How much would Roxanne suffer before—and if—she told him. And if she did, how much more would Luke bleed in having to leave again?
He considered it all for a moment. It seemed to him that Luke’s return was more satisfying than his staying away altogether. It was, after all, more enjoyable to watch people suffer than to imagine it. And it appeared he could be paid for being entertained.
“A million dollars? Just how did you manage to accumulate so much?”
“I . . .” With a hand that shook, Luke set the brandy aside. “I performed.”
“Haven’t lost the magic touch? I imagine you continued to steal as well.” Pleased by Luke’s guilty start, he nodded. “Yes, I thought so. A million dollars,” he repeated. “I’ll have to think about it. Campaign funds are so carefully scrutinized these days. We wouldn’t want any hint of graft or corruption to taint my image—especially when Gunner professes to be so squeaky clean. I’d like to . . .” He trailed off as a new idea dawned. It was so perfect, he realized, as if fate had handed him another tool.
“I believe we might be able to make a deal.”
With eagerness in his eyes, in his voice, Luke leaned forward. “I’ll have the money within a week. I can bring it to you wherever you say.”
“The money will have to wait until after the election. I’ll want my accountant to find a nice safe channel for it. In the meantime I have work for you. It’ll buy you the time you want so badly.”
It was a curve Luke hadn’t expected. He’d counted on Sam’s greed being enough. “Whatever you want.”
“You might recall a little incident called Watergate. The burglars there were sloppy. You’d have to be very neat, very clever.”
Luke changed gears and nodded. “You want me to steal documents?”
“I have no way of knowing if there are any documents worth stealing. But a man with your connections should be able to manufacture papers, photographs, that sort of thing. And if one can steal, one can also plant.”
Folding his hands, Sam inched forward. It was so perfect. With his new tool he would not simply win the election, he would destroy his opponent, politically, personally, publicly.
“Curtis Gunner is the happily married father of two. His record in the State Senate is clean as a whis
tle. I want you to change all that.”
“Change it? How?”
“Magic.” Resting his chin on his folded hands, he grinned. “That’s what you’re best at, isn’t it? I want photos of Gunner with other women—with whores. And with other men, yes, with other men.” He had to press a hand to his side as giddy laughter shook him at the image. “That will be even more interesting. I want letters, papers documenting his involvement in illegal business deals, others showing he siphoned off welfare money for personal use. That ought to kick his liberal ass. I want you to make them good, unimpeachable.”
“I don’t know how—”
“Then you’ll find a way.” Sam’s eyes glittered. The power was here, all here, he realized. This time he hadn’t even had to look for it. “You want to take your sentimental journey, Callahan, then you pay for it. You put together the faked photos, the papers, receipts, correspondence. I’ll give you from now until, we’ll say, ten days before the election. Yes, ten days,” he murmured to himself. “When this leaks, I’ll want it fresh in the voters’ minds as they walk behind the curtain to pull the lever.” Feeling generous, he inclined his head. “That gives you the same amount of time with the Nouvelles.”
“I’ll do whatever I can.”
“You’ll do exactly as I say, or when the time’s up, you’ll pay. They’ll all pay.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
With a new smile playing around his mouth, Sam lifted his ivory-handled letter opener, testing the tip with his thumb. “You satisfy me with the job I’m giving you. Completely satisfy me. Or everything I threatened you with five years ago will come true.”
“You said if I left you wouldn’t do anything to them.”
With one vicious stroke he stabbed the tip of the letter opener into the padded corner of his blotter. “And you put it all back on the line by coming here. You’ve tossed the dice again, Callahan. What happens to the Nouvelles depends on just how well you play. Understood?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I understand.”
He was going to play, Luke thought. And this time, he was going to win.
“So, so?” Dancing with impatience, Jake trailed Luke to the Cessna.
“So, are my things on board?”
“Yeah, yeah. What happened with Wyatt? Me, I’m just a peon, sure. Just a lowly soldier behind the front lines, just a—”
“An asshole,” Luke finished for him. He climbed into the cockpit and began to check gauges. “It went fine,” he said when Jake lapsed into offended silence. “If you consider the fact that I had to lower myself to playing the babbling beggar when what I wanted to do was cut out his heart.”
“From what I hear, this dude don’t have a heart anyway.” Jake strapped in, shoved his glasses back up his nose. It was obvious that Luke was in a dangerous mood—which meant the short flight to New Orleans would be an eventful one. As a precaution Jake downed Dramamine and Valium with what was left of his warming orange soda. “Anyway, you got the time you need, right?”
“I got it.” Luke broke off to check in with the tower and get the go-ahead for takeoff. As he began his taxi, he glanced at Jake, who was already pale, glassy-eyed and white-knuckled. “I’ve also got another job for you.”
“Oh, good. Yeah, great.” In self-defense, Jake closed his eyes when the plane’s nose lifted. As he’d told Luke time and time again, he hated flying. Always had, always would. Which was why, he was certain, Luke crammed him into a cockpit on the average of once a week.
“Wyatt’s deal included some creative mudslinging.” As the plane continued its climb, Luke felt most of his tension draining away. He loved flying. Always had, always would. “It’s right up your alley.”
“Slinging mud.” Cautious, Jake opened one eye. “So what do I know about slinging mud?”
“He wants doctored photographs, papers, business correspondence, putting this Curtis Gunner in a bad light. Illegal, unethical and immoral documents—the kind that lose elections and break up families, destroy lives.”
“Shit, Luke, we got nothing against this Gunner guy, right? I know you had to dance with the devil to buy the time you need to put the screws to Wyatt. But, hell, it doesn’t seem quite kosher.”
After leveling off, Luke drew out a cigar. “Life sucks, Finestein, if you haven’t noticed. You do the job, and do it good—with just one small adjustment.”
Jake sighed. “I said I was in for the deal, so I’m in. You’ll get the stuff—and it’ll be hot enough to burn.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“So, what’s the adjustment?”
Luke clamped the cigar between his teeth and grinned. “You don’t do it on Gunner, you do it on Wyatt.”
“On Wyatt? But you said . . .” Jake’s pale face cleared into a dreamy smile. The Valium was taking hold. “Now I get it. Now I get it. A double cross.”
“Christ, you’re a quick study, Finestein.” His grin was still widening as Luke banked the plane and headed for home.
28
The bedroom Lily and Max had once shared was fully equipped for the care of a patient with severe cognitive impairment. Roxanne had worked closely with hospital staff and an interior decorator to be certain that her father’s environment was safe and practical without having the atmosphere of a hospital room.
Monitors and medicines were necessary, but so, in her opinion, were the bright colors and soft materials Max had always loved. A team of three nurses had eight-hour shifts, a physical therapist and a counselor made regular visits. But there were also fresh flowers, plumped pillows and a wide selection of Max’s favorite classical music.
A special lock had been installed on the terrace doors to prevent him from wandering out alone. Roxanne had coldly dismissed one doctor’s advice to have the windows fixed with bars and had hung new lace curtains instead.
Her father might be a prisoner of his illness, but she wouldn’t make him one in his own home.
It pleased her to see the sunlight streaming through the lace at the windows, to hear the muted strains of Chopin as she stepped into her father’s room. It no longer ripped so viciously at her heart when he didn’t recognize her. She’d come to accept that there would be good days, and there would be bad ones. Now, seeing him sitting at his desk, patiently shifting sponge balls between his fingers, she could feel some small seed of relief.
Today, he was content.
“Good morning, Miss Nouvelle.” The first-shift R.N. sat by the window reading. She set the book aside and smiled at Roxanne. “Mr. Nouvelle’s taking some practice time before his therapy.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Fleck. If you’d like to take a break for ten or fifteen minutes, LeClerc has fresh coffee on.”
“I could probably force some down.” Mrs. Fleck had twenty years as a nurse, and kind eyes. It had been the eyes more than the experience that had prompted Roxanne to hire her. She hefted her sturdy bulk out of the chair and touched Roxanne’s arm briefly as she left the room.
“Hello, Daddy.” Roxanne crossed to the desk, bent to kiss her father’s cheek. It was too thin, so thin she often wondered how the fragile skin withheld the pressure of bone. “It’s a pretty day. Have you looked outside? All of LeClerc’s flowers are blooming, and Mouse fixed the fountain in the courtyard. Maybe you’d like to sit down there later and listen to it.”
“I have to practice.”
“I know.” She stood with a hand light on his shoulder, watching his twisted fingers struggle to manipulate the balls. Once he could have snapped his fingers and made fire, but it was best not to think of that. “The performance went well. The finale was especially smooth. Oscar’s gotten to be quite a ham, and such a trooper even Lily isn’t nervous around him anymore.”
She continued to talk, not expecting a response. It was a rare day when Max would stop whatever he was doing to look at her, much less engage in a real conversation. “We took Nate to the zoo. He just loved it. I didn’t think I’d ever get him out of the snake house. He’s getting so
big, Daddy. Sometimes I look at him and can hardly believe he’s mine. Did you ever feel that way, when I was growing up? Did you ever just look and feel sort of dazed all over and wonder how that person came from you?”
One of the balls bounced onto the floor. Roxanne bent to retrieve it, then crouched so that her eyes were on a level with Max’s as she passed it back to him.
Max’s gaze skittered away from hers, like a spider seeking a corner to spin a web. But she was patient and waited until he looked at her again.
“Did you worry all the time?” she asked softly. “In the back of your mind, under and over all the day-to-day business of living? Were you always afraid you’d do the wrong thing, say the wrong thing, make the wrong choice? It never gets easier, does it? Having a child is so wonderful, and it’s so scary.”
Max’s smile bloomed slowly. For Roxanne it was like watching the sun come up over the desert. “You’re very pretty,” he said, stroking her hair. “I have to practice now. Would you like to come to the performance and watch me saw a woman in half?”
“Yes.” She watched him work the balls with his fingers. “That would be nice.” She waited a moment. “Luke’s back, Daddy.”
He continued to work the balls, his smile turning into a frown of concentration. “Luke,” he said after a long pause. And again. “Luke.”
“Yes. He’d like to see you. Is it all right if I let him visit?”
“Did he get out of that box?” Max’s facial muscles began to twitch. The balls scattered, bouncing. His voice rose, petulant and demanding. “Did he get out?”
“Yes.” Roxanne took her father’s restless hands. “He’s just fine. I’m going to see him in a little while. Would you want me to bring him to you?”
“Not when I’m practicing.” Max’s voice pitched higher, cracked. “I need to practice. How can I get it right if I don’t practice?”