Howard Talliman smiles. “How do you know the police aren’t listening in on this conversation in the other room? How do you know they’re not about to bust in here and arrest you for extortion and blackmail?”
Allison tenses up. He can see it in her eyes that, for a second there, she’s actually expecting it to happen. But then her muscles appear to relax.
“I don’t think you’d do that. Because then it would all come out. That the governor’s wife had been having a lesbian affair.”
“You think you could survive that kind of publicity?”
“Sure.”
“How do you think your mother in Dayton would handle it?”
That gets her. You can almost hear her make a cartoon gulp. Knows he’s done his homework. But she composes herself again. “I think Mom’s been suspecting it for years.”
“You’ve not come out to her.”
“No. But this would save me the trouble of a painful sit-down, I guess. The real question is, could Bridget and her husband survive it?”
“They’d simply deny it,” Howard says. “Your word against hers. She’s married to an attorney general and you, my dear, are a barmaid.”
“A barmaid with proof.”
He’s been waiting to see whether she’ll play this card. The text messages. The phone records.
“Proof,” he says. “And what proof would that be?”
“We had a lot of conversations. The kinds that there’s a record of.”
“Your phone.”
She nods.
“Let me see. Prove it to me,” he says.
Allison shakes her head. “Do I look stupid?” He does not answer. “Like I’m going to give it to you.”
“If you want the one hundred thousand, you will have to produce your phone at the time of delivery so that I can be certain those messages have been expunged.”
Allison appears to be thinking about this point, like she doesn’t want to lose her leverage.
“I suppose that’s okay,” she says.
Howard puts his cup and saucer on the table and clears his throat. “And what assurances does Bridget have that you won’t come back and ask her for more money?”
“You’ll just have to take my word on that,” Allison says, and there’s a trace of an impish grin.
“Yes, I suppose I’ll just have to do that,” Howard says. He slaps the tops of his knees. “Well, thanks so much for dropping by. We’ll be in touch.”
Makes it sound like an audition.
“Don’t you have my money?”
“Not at the moment,” Howard says, standing. “Perhaps you were expecting Bridget to bring it today, but I wanted to get a sense of the situation first. It will take time to get that kind of money together. I’m assuming you weren’t expecting me to write you a check.”
Embarrassment washes over her face as she stands. “No, of course not. But, is it all going to be cash?”
“I think we’d agree it’s better that there be no record of this transaction,” he says.
“God, what will I do with all that cash?”
“I would suggest you rent yourself a safe-deposit box. And then draw from it as your needs dictate.”
There’s a sparkle in her eye. He can see she’s already picturing all that money, wondering just how big a pile a hundred thousand dollars is.
“Okay, okay, I can do that. Where do you get these box things?”
Howard sighs. “I would try a bank.”
“You’ll get in touch when you have the money?”
“Absolutely.”
Howard is thinking ahead, wondering what kind of damage there will be if this gets out. Suppose she does go to the press? Howard is confident, as he has told Bridget, that they’ll be able to find enough on this woman to discredit her. They will ruin her in the public eye. It could be a tough go, no doubt about it. But then again, Bridget is not the one running for office. If this scandal is to end up destroying her, so be it. Morris can probably survive it, even if it means cutting Bridget loose. The whole thing could conceivably garner the man some sympathy, once the hoopla dies down. Extramarital affairs, stains on blue dresses, hanky-panky with hotel maids—there was no end of things politicians seemed able to bounce back from.
But paying her the hundred grand—how will that look if it gets out? Howard’s mind races. He thinks there’s a way to spin it. He’ll take the blame, say he did it to spare his friend and his wife pain and embarrassment. Resign as Sawchuck’s adviser if he has to, at least publicly, and continue to manage things from behind the scenes.
Still, it will be a mess if it gets out. While survivable, it’ll set back the timetable a bit. They’ve already had to put things on hold because of that other matter, wondering whether the proverbial shit is going to hit the fan, but as each day passes, things look more promising. And as for this woman, maybe, just maybe, once she has her money, she’ll really go away.
The things you had to do.
And then Allison Fitch says, “Just don’t try anything funny. Because, you know, I know stuff.”
Howard blinks. “I’m sorry?”
She’s on her feet now, heading for the door. “Now that I know who Bridget is, who she’s married to, you think back, stuff you saw, stuff you overheard, it all starts to come together.”
Howard feels a chill. “What, exactly, are you talking about?”
The last thing she says as she goes into the hall is, “You just come up with the hundred grand and you won’t have to worry about it.”
Howard stares at the door as it closes.
He is going to have to have another chat with Bridget. And before that, he would put in a call to Lewis. Whenever things looked as though they were going to escalate, he talked to Lewis.
SEVENTEEN
WHEN I walked into his room, Thomas, staring at the screen with his back to me, said, “I thought they were nice, but they should have sent the CIA.”
I came up around the side of his map-and-computer-cluttered desk and crouched down, then reached over to where the power strip went into the wall outlet. I yanked it out. The soft whirring of the computer stopped instantly with a barely audible pop.
Thomas screamed, “Hey!”
Then I reached over another few inches, where the phone line went into the jack, and pulled that out as well. Thomas stared, dumbstruck, at the suddenly black monitors.
“Turn them on!” he shouted. “Turn them back on!”
I shouted back, louder, “What the fuck were you thinking? Can you tell me that? What in the goddamn hell were you thinking? Getting in touch with the CIA? Sending them e-mails? Are you crazy?”
Even as I said it, I knew it was wrong. But I couldn’t stop myself.
“Jesus, I can’t believe it. The FBI! The goddamn FBI at our door! You’re lucky they didn’t arrest you, Thomas. Or both of us! At the very least, I’m amazed they didn’t walk out of here with your computer. Thank God you didn’t actually threaten anyone. Do you have any idea what the world is like today? You start sending e-mails to government agencies, telling them some cataclysmic event is on the horizon? Have you any idea how many alarm bells that sets off?”
“Plug it back in, Ray!” He was out of the chair now, dropping to his knees, scrambling for the cord that led out of the power strip.
I grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him away. “No! This is it, Thomas! I’ve had it! Enough!”
But Thomas scrambled ahead, crablike, getting himself under the table. I grabbed hold of his legs and dragged him out.
“I hate you!” he shouted. There were tears streaming down his red, angry cheeks.
“You’re done with this!” I said. “Done! You’re getting out of this room and going outside! You’re going to start living like a normal person!”
“Leave me alone leave me alone leave me alone,” he whimpered. I’d dragged him to the middle of his room, both of us sprawled out on the floor. The bare hardwood had made it easy to move him, but several maps and printout
s had bunched up under him in the process. He grabbed one of the crumpled papers caught under his thigh, opened it, and tried to flatten it out on the top of his leg.
“Look what you’ve done!” he said.
I grabbed the map from his hands, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it across the room.
“No!” he said.
I knew this was wrong. Yelling at Thomas, pulling the plug on his computer, and, maybe worst of all, treating one of his precious maps like a used paper towel. I’d lost control of the situation, and I’d lost control of myself. Losing my father, coming back here, trying to figure out what to do with the house and Thomas, and now a couple of federal agents at the door—I’d snapped. But there was no excuse for coming down on Thomas this hard.
So maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised when Thomas snapped, too.
He came at me like he’d been shot out of a cannon. He lunged, reaching out and grabbing me around the neck. I toppled over onto my back and he landed on top of me, our legs tangling, his hands still clutching at my throat.
“You’re just like Dad!” he cried. His eyes were wide and manic. Choking, I grabbed his wrists but couldn’t break his grasp.
“Thomas!” I croaked. “Let…go!”
I reached up, grabbed his left ear with my right hand, and yanked.
Thomas yelped and released me. I rolled and squirmed out from under him. Pulling his ear seemed to have had the effect of stunning him. He looked at the chaos around us, then at me, and shook his head.
“No no no,” he said, and instead of turning any further anger on me, began to hit himself. He was driving the heels of his hands, alternating left and right, into his forehead. Hard.
“Thomas!” I said. “Stop it!”
I tried to get my arms around his, but they were like pistons. He was pounding his head hard enough that it sounded like wood hitting wood. I threw myself on him, pinning him to make him stop.
He made unintelligible grunting noises of frustration.
“It’s okay!” I said. “Thomas, stop!” I kept my weight on him, hoping that by restricting his movements I’d calm him.
“It’s okay,” I said again. “I’m sorry.”
Like a switch had been flipped, he stopped. His forehead was red and beginning to bruise. Between the battering he’d given himself and his red and swollen eyes, he looked as though he had just lost a bar fight.
He was crying.
I felt myself becoming overwhelmed. My throat felt thick, my breathing quickened.
Now I was crying, too.
“Thomas, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m going to get off you, okay?”
“Okay,” he said.
“I’m getting up. Promise me you won’t hit yourself anymore, okay?”
“I won’t.”
“Okay, that’s good. We’re good.” I eased him up into a sitting position, ran my hand on his back.
He glanced over at the power strip. “I’m going to plug it back in,” he said.
“I’ll get it, let me.” I crawled over, shoved the plug into the outlet. The computer tower started to hum. Before Thomas could get up I said to him, “But we need to establish some rules, okay? Before you start exploring again.”
He nodded slowly.
“First thing we have to do is get an ice pack on your head. You okay with that?”
He considered my offer. “Okay,” he said.
I extended a hand, and was relieved when he took it. I noticed his hands were bruised, too. “Jesus, you really made a mess of yourself.”
He looked at me. “How is your neck?”
It hurt. “Fine,” I said.
“I’m sorry I tried to kill you,” he said.
“You weren’t trying to kill me. You were just angry. I was an asshole.”
He nodded. “Yeah. A fuckhead.”
He sat at the kitchen table while I found a soft ice pack in the freezer. Dad was always suffering from some kind of strain or pulled muscle and there were enough packs in there to cool a Dairy Queen. “Hold this on your head,” I said, handing Thomas one.
I pulled over a chair so I could put an arm around his shoulder.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” I said.
“No,” Thomas said.
“I kind of lost it.”
“Have you been taking your medication?” he asked,
I hadn’t had a single M&M since returning from Dr. Grigorin’s. “No, I guess I forgot to take them.”
“You run into problems when you don’t take your medication,” he said.
I kept my arm around him. “There’s no excuse for what I did. I know…I know you’re the way you are, and screaming at you, that’s not going to make things any different.”
“What are the rules?” he asked.
“I just…I just want you to check with me first before you send any e-mails, or make any phone calls. But you can still wander all the cities you want for as long as you want. Is that a deal?”
He thought about it, still holding the freezer bag to his head. “I don’t know.”
“Thomas, not everyone in the government understands that you’re trying to help them. They don’t understand that you’re a good guy. I want to make sure there aren’t any misunderstandings. It’s not just you who could get in trouble. It’s me, too.”
“I guess,” he said. He took the bag from his head. “It’s really cold.”
“Try to keep it there. It’ll keep the swelling down.”
“Okay,” he said.
“I’ve never seen you get that angry,” I said. “I mean, I had it coming, but I didn’t know you had it in you.”
As Thomas held the cold bag to his head, his eyes were shielded.
“I’m going to go back to work now,” he said, slipping out from under my arm and heading for the stairs, leaving the bag on the table.
His back to me, he said, “Am I still making dinner tonight?”
I had forgotten. “No,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”
EIGHTEEN
BRIDGET is coming out of the building on Thirty-fifth Street where the PR firm she works for is headquartered when she sees him waiting there for her.
He grabs her firmly by the elbow and starts leading her down the sidewalk.
“Howard!” she says, glancing down at his hand. “Let go of my arm. You’re hurting me.”
Howard Talliman says nothing. He swiftly moves her along, Bridget struggling to maintain her balance on her heels. He steers her into the lobby of a building, the first place he’s spotted where he can talk to her without anyone else listening in.
“What does she know?” Howard asks once they are inside. He has moved Bridget up against a marble wall and still not released his grip on her.
“Howard, what the hell—”
“She says she heard things.” He is hissing, almost snakelike.
“What? What are you talking about?”
“I met with her. When she was leaving, she said she heard things.”
“Heard what? What did she say she heard?”
“She didn’t say. But she intimated that it was something damaging. Things you’d said, things that made sense once she knew who you are.”
“Howard, I swear—”
“Did you talk to Morris while you were in Barbados?”
“Of course. We talk all the time.”
“You talked to him when you were with Allison Fitch?”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure I did. Howard, I can’t feel my hand. You’re cutting off the circulation.”
He releases his grip but is still only inches from her, his face pressed up to hers. “Was she present when you had those conversations?”
“No, I mean, she might have been in the other room. I talked to him when I was in the bathroom, or maybe when Allison was. I talked to him by the pool one day, when she went off to get us drinks.”
“So she might have heard any of them. She could have been behind you, or on the other side of a door,” Howard
says.
“Okay, I suppose it’s possible, but even if she did, we didn’t—I’m sure I never said anything that—”
“You know about Morris’s situation,” Howard says grimly.
“He doesn’t tell me everything.”
“But you know.”
“I know what they’re looking into, okay. How could I not know? Morris is going out of his mind about it, thinking sooner or later it’s going to come out, that Goldsmith will implicate him.”
So she did know.
Howard had never been able to persuade Morris not to discuss political liabilities with his wife. He’d clearly told her how Barton Goldsmith, the CIA director, had involved Sawchuck in his plan to cut deals with a handful of terrorism suspects. Goldsmith argued he was doing it to protect the people of the United States, but it turned out the people of the United States didn’t quite see it that way after the New York Times did an exposé on how Goldsmith had leaned on various prosecutors and law enforcement agencies across the country to allow certain terror suspects to walk in return for information.
Like those two nut jobs who were about to set off a bomb in a Florida theme park when they were nabbed. The moment he was notified of the arrests, Goldsmith was leaning on Florida’s highest-ranking law enforcement officials to hold the two men until his people arrived. Goldsmith’s intelligence experts said something much bigger was coming, and those clowns in Florida agreed to tell everything they knew in return for a couple of air tickets back to Yemen. (The U.S. government even paid their airfare home, the Times noted, a fact that rankled almost as much as the prospect of the devastation they nearly caused.)
Goldsmith credited the deal with thwarting another underwear/shoe-type bomber before he boarded a Washington-bound plane in Paris. But the Times story could find no definitive link between the two events. It suggested Goldsmith was inflating the value of the intel he’d received from the two theme park terrorists to justify sending them home.
Trust Your Eyes Page 12
