by Davis Bunn
“I don’t understand.”
“We have recorded your message for different audiences,” Jenny explained. “We combined your two communications into one.”
“My daughter did this,” Richard said.
“It is very beautiful,” his wife agreed. “Most compelling.”
Jenny went on, “Alisha has addressed the African American community. I spoke the words both in Cantonese and Mandarin. Aaron has spoken in Hebrew, Yussuf in Arabic.”
“The message is going out to all the world,” Richard said, marveling.
“Sounds great,” John said, though he couldn’t help but think that theirs was a feeble effort compared to the might of the Mundrose empire.
His unspoken thoughts must have showed, for Ruth said, “Tell him what’s happening.”
In response, Jenny reached for her laptop. She typed for a time, then handed John the computer and said, “Hit ‘play.’ ”
The impact of the video caught him totally off guard. He scarcely recognized himself. The stark power of his words seemed utterly alien. When it was done, Jenny asked, “Do you want to see it again?”
“No.” He handed back the laptop. “No.”
“GMC is playing the video once an hour. The online site has received over four million hits.”
Richard added, “The producer, Kevin, says it’s gone viral.”
“GMC wants to interview you for a clip they will air with their nightly news program,” Jenny said. “I have asked if they could give you the questions in advance, so I can help you with the responses.”
John wished he was able to hear such requests without having his gut congeal with fresh fear. “You might as well give me the rest.”
Heather reached over and took his hand, the caring wife delivering dreaded news. “Your story is coming out.”
He felt nerves rise to his throat.
“Everything, John.”
Ruth looked more frail today, her voice a slender thread that still managed to carry great strength. “I want to tell you something. Are you listening to me, John?”
He forced himself to reach beyond the horror of knowing his secrets were now revealed to the world. “Yes.”
“The only reason they are attacking us is because we are succeeding. Do you understand?”
“You don’t know. You can’t …” John took a deep breath. Another. John fastened his hands to the rocker arms. Knowing they needed to hear this. Wishing he had said it before they put him on air the first time. “When I was nineteen years old, I was a sophomore at Ohio State and a star of their football team. I was rambunctious and aggressive and full of myself. After we won the regional final, I went out drinking with my buddies. I got into a bar fight, I lost my temper, and I beat a man within an inch of his life…” John felt engulfed in the torment of thirty long years. Finally he recovered enough to continue. “The man still suffers from what I did to him. No help I send can ever restore the damaged state I left him in. I was arrested and convicted and did six months in the state farm. I lost my scholarship. I was kicked out of the university. The only person who didn’t abandon me was Heather.”
He released one hand to clench the flesh over his aching heart. “My entire life headed off in a different direction. My every step, my every job, my every loan application, my every interview—it’s all been tainted by that one dark night. My life never recovered.”
John slid from his rocker and landed on his knees by the arm of his wife’s chair. “I’m sorry, Heather. So sorry.”
“Oh, John.”
“What I’ve put you through—”
“My dear, sweet, loving man.” She held his face in both of hers. “You have been a wonderful husband and father. You have given me everything you had to give.”
“It’s not enough. It never has been.”
“Have I ever asked you for anything more?”
“No, but you should have. And you should have gotten it.”
“I am so glad I’m married to you.”
Jenny reached over, gripped John’s shoulder, and said, “Lord, as you calm the seas, so calm my brother’s spirit.”
“I say, amen,” Richard said.
“Sit up, John,” Heather said.
The others waited as she guided him back into his chair. Though it cost him, John met each gaze in turn, and realized, “You can’t still want me to do this.”
“No, John,” Ruth said. “We think God is going to use this.”
22
“… at the proper time …”
LOS ANGELES
Soon after daybreak Trent sent Gayle to check them out of the Bel Air Hotel. An inexpensive apartment-hotel two blocks from their offices, on the wrong side of Wilshire, would do. Trent knew Gayle was disappointed, but he also knew it was the right decision. His bungalow cost twelve hundred dollars a night and he could better use the drive time either working or sleeping. There wasn’t time for anything else, and his ego did not require such elegant stroking. He would leave that for a time when he could truly enjoy it. Once he had survived the current crisis. Because that was what he faced. Either he made this work, or all this was just part of someone else’s dream.
Trent left the office building in the bleak light of predawn Los Angeles. The desert to the east felt closest in this vague hour, when the streets were as empty as the sky overhead. The palms lining Wilshire Boulevard were etchings inked into a pale blue-grey wash. Trent stumbled down the side street, checked in to the new digs, and threw himself onto the bed. His weary brain echoed with faint tendrils of worry and stress and fear. His vague nightmares never completely managed to wake him.
Too soon the phone rang with his wake-up call. His body ached with the need for more rest. But he had to get back. He rose from the bed and discovered someone had deposited his suitcase inside his doorway. Trent showered and dressed, left the hotel, and winced at the roar of a city already well into its morning routine.
But as soon as he entered the Wilshire Building, he felt the fatigue and uncertainty slip away. He was back in his element, feeding off the crew’s mad energy. A fresh breakfast buffet had been set up in the lobby. Trent made himself a sandwich and poured a mug of coffee. He laughed at a joke he did not need to hear, and climbed the stairs, food in hand, to the fourth floor. He heard chatter echo through the stairway’s concrete cavern and knew others felt as he did, that the elevator moved far too slowly for such a time as this.
He passed through the central office area and greeted several of the people on his strategy team. Their clothes were rumpled and their eyes red-rimmed, and some of the hands jerked with the tight spasms of too much caffeine. But Trent saw the pride they were taking in their work and knew the hours they invested, and he thought he had never known a taste quite so sweet as leading this group.
He entered the office Colin had let him have at his request and swiftly became absorbed in the time sheets he had been working on before departing. He turned at a knock on the door.
“My name is Dermott McAllister, Mr. Cooper. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
“No, sorry.”
The man was narrow and dressed in a nondescript brown tweed suit. “No matter. Mr. Mundrose suggested you might want my assistance.”
“Father or son?”
His smile was as small as the rest of him. Perhaps that was the case with all his motions. Certainly his voice was soft enough to go unnoticed. Then again, Trent reflected, the asp was one of nature’s smallest snakes, and also one of the most venomous. Dermott McAllister replied, “I am not certain that Mr. Mundrose Junior is even aware of my existence.”
The man appeared oddly put together. At first glance, the face belonged to a man in his thirties. But closer inspection revealed extensive plastic surgery. And Trent was fairly certain the man wore a toupee. Dermott McAllister’s face was reworked into a form that might have been handsome, except for how a few angles were not quite symmetric. The chin was a few degrees to the left of center. The nose tilted slightl
y to the right. One ear appeared a fraction lower than the other. The neck was creased in a couple of places, as though the surgeons had not quite pulled the slack tight enough. But the man’s most remarkable quality was his eyes. They were brown and flat and empty as an open grave.
Trent asked, “Help me with what?”
“Whatever you desire, Mr. Cooper. Among the Mundrose Group’s upper echelon, ‘whatever it takes’ carries particular importance.”
Trent felt a flutter of fear. “As in, last chance.”
“It’s so good to know I am dealing with someone who sees life as it is.”
“So you are whatever it takes.”
“I am nothing, Mr. Cooper. I am no one. Mr. Mundrose sent me to offer what small word of counsel I can, and then vanish into the ether. I do both well, may I say.” Dermott McAllister glanced around the windowless cubicle and sniffed. “This is the best space Colin Tomlin had to offer?”
“I asked for it,” Trent replied. “I wanted a desk as close to his as possible. You take the one he assigned to me.”
“I beg pardon?”
“There’s a spare cubicle in the central bullpen. I assume you’ll need the privacy more than me.”
“Very well, Mr. Cooper, I accept.” He gestured to each side of the room. “Now tell me what it is I’m seeing here.”
Trent had taped long strips of white paper along both walls. “This first holds what I know about our opposition. I’ve asked my agency for more complete workups. They should be here any time now.”
“And the other?”
Trent turned to the opposite wall. “This is our frontal assault. That’s my term. The ads, the online campaign, films, interviews, printed stories, so on.”
Dermott McAllister revealed a slight limp as he moved to examine first one and then the other. Trent assumed the man had survived some horrific accident, and for some reason Trent found himself more comfortable as a result. He knew the man was deadly. But their lives were linked now. By far more than what he had scrawled on those paper scrolls.
As if in confirmation, the little man spoke without taking his eye off the sheets. “Now tell me what you really want, Mr. Cooper.”
“I—excuse me?”
“These plans of yours, they’re all fine as far as they go. But are they enough? That’s the question, isn’t it. Do they accomplish what is required?”
Trent scanned the two long sheets. When his team had been assembled, he had imagined the events like cannons primed and waiting to be fired. But now doubts rose up and gnawed at him. He confessed, “I never thought we would need any of this. But now—”
A voice spoke from the doorway. “Oh, Mr. McAllister.”
“How very nice to see you, Gayle. You look fresh and lovely as ever.”
Gayle seemed unwilling to enter his office. She hovered just beyond the entrance, her expression tinted with a fear strong as dread. “I was not aware that you had been … summoned.”
“And yet here I am.”
Trent told her, “I’m expecting new intel from the agency. Could you please go online, download what they’ve sent, and print out four copies. Keep one for yourself, give one to Colin, and bring us the other two.”
“Certainly.” She fled.
Trent walked over and shut the door. Gayle’s response to the narrow man only heightened his own sense of confronting a monumental event. Dermott McAllister had not merely asked him a question. He was issuing a challenge. How much did Trent want it? How far was Trent willing to take this? He was being offered a choice. He could accept the invitation, and be granted the power to wreak havoc on those who dared oppose him. Or …
Trent turned from the door to discover that Dermott McAllister had gone back to studying the strips of paper with the handwritten notes. In a sudden jarring flash, Trent saw himself in ten years’ time. Standing in some grand office, staring at a different plan of action but with the same flat gaze. The soft speech. Drawing the same sense of dread from those seated across from him.
Trent walked over to stand beside the man. He could feel the barely disguised energy emanating from McAllister, like the acrid heat that presaged a tornado’s arrival. But the force fit the moment. Because the truth was, he had always known it would come to this. Committing himself totally. Claiming the power to wreak havoc on his enemies.
Again he felt that shuddering impact of unwanted insight. He saw what had happened to Dermott McAllister’s voice. The acid of old rage had eaten down to where all he could manage was a dry, husky murmur.
Trent gave a mental shrug. Barry Mundrose had said it all. He echoed the words out loud. “Whatever it takes.”
“My thoughts exactly, Mr. Cooper.”
Trent moved in closer still. “I want them dead and buried. I want everyone who has even shaken their hands to be singed in the process.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.” Up close the man’s surgical scars were much clearer, red tracings along the hairline and forehead and above the right eye. “That is my area of expertise, as it happens.”
Trent went on, “I want their campaign destroyed. I want them to rue the moment they decided to take on the Mundrose Group.”
The little man faced Trent. “You want to win.”
“No, Mr. McAllister. I want the world to know that I am someone to fear. So the next time, they won’t even think about opposing me. I want them beaten before the next battle starts.”
“A man after my own heart.” He turned back to the wall. “Give me a few minutes to settle in, and then we’ll get to work.”
23
“… whoever belongs to God …”
WESTCHESTER COUNTY
Throughout that morning, John watched helplessly as the secrets he had guarded nearly his entire life began to appear on national display. Two of the morning news programs led with his appearance, speaking for a church-led protest movement against the Mundrose empire. The overview of his background was very thorough, and their smirks said it all. Here was a convicted felon, an assistant manager for a truck depot, who dared criticize a renowned entertainment empire for merely another film, another ad campaign.
Over his second cup of coffee, John watched his wife talk on the phone with their two children. They both knew about their father’s past because John had told them. Several times, in fact. His son took the current news in stride. He was busy, he had two young ones of his own and a small business to run. John often thought of his son as living the American dream for them both. But he had never said it, because John did not want to add to the pressure that already surrounded the young man. He had not yet heard about the public smear campaign and didn’t see what the fuss was about. That particular conversation lasted all of three minutes, which was typical for a call during his son’s long workday.
His daughter, though, was a different story. He could see it in the way Heather’s answers grew as taut as her face. Sally had come ten years after her brother, when he and Heather thought they would have no more children. Sally was a joy and a trial, both in equal measure. She had made a lifetime commitment to playing the victim, fiercely determined to remain the center of her universe.
Finally John asked, “Would you like me to speak with her?”
Heather covered the receiver. “I’m trying to spare you.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t. It’s my fault.”
“No, it’s not, John.”
“Heather, I’m the one—”
“Don’t make me argue with you too.” She turned her back to him and returned to the conversation.
John knew exactly what Sally was saying. Why hadn’t he known this would come out and stopped it before now. John sighed his way out of the porch rocker and went inside. He felt like he was running away. But Heather was right. He didn’t need this. Not now.
Ruth was seated in the kitchen, the cane leaning against the table beside her chair. She thanked the young woman who set down a saucer holding three pills, then told John, “Kevin just called from the studio. T
hey’re ready to shoot the next clip.”
“Are you all right?”
She revealed an impish smile. “It would be terrible to lie under the circumstances, wouldn’t it?”
“Awful,” John agreed with mock solemnity.
“Then don’t ask.” She pointed him down the hall to the study. “Go choose yourself a different suit. Charcoal gray would be nice this time. And don’t keep those young folks waiting.”
As he knotted the tie that Heather had selected for him, John found himself struck by an idea. He found it oddly remarkable how he could be making plans in the midst of what he had expected to be his most shameful hour. And yet there was no denying the fact that the divine hand was at work. He had come to this realization late in the night, when his sweat had dampened the sheets, and he had wondered if he would have the strength to rise with the dawn. He had no control over the outside world. He could only accept that he was not alone, and he was doing what had been asked of him.
When John emerged from the house, Yussuf and Aaron were standing there with Heather. “I asked them to join us,” she told him.
“I’m glad you did.” They walked down the lane skirting the low hill toward the main complex. John took his time explaining what had come to him. “It’s just the glimmer of an idea. So if you don’t want to do this thing—”
Yussuf didn’t let him finish. “How can we refuse?”
“It is a good idea,” Aaron agreed.
“I think so too,” Heather said.
“Though the very thought fills me with dread,” Aaron added.
“Join the club,” John said.
There was an uncommon hush to the day, with high clouds held aloft by the still air. The heat caused the road ahead to shimmer. John slipped off the suit coat and slung it over one shoulder. To either side of the lane, tiny wildflowers carpeted the meadow with flecks of brilliant color. When the main buildings came into view, he took a long breath and hoped he was doing the right thing.