by Gayle Lynds
David said, "You heard I had to pony up six million dollars that we're never going to see again. Christ. We'd better win."
"I call that an investment," Creighton replied calmly. "It's guaranteeing one more revelation that will send Powers into a tailspin this afternoon from which the poor dumb bastard will never recover." He eyed David, who was dressed like him in tailored chinos and a silklike cotton shirt. All three would don their tuxedos soon. "He phoned me, you know."
"Senator Powers?" David and Brice said together.
Creighton nodded. "He threatened me. Said if he went down, I'd go down, too. It was all the usual clichés about how he'd have people on my tail until they dug up the connection between me and Staffeld and any other nasty deed he could lay on me."
David was worried. "I assume you've protected yourself."
Brice was blunt: "Jesus, Creighton. If they get you, they'll get us, too." It was the downside of Tokugawa's Fist, but they'd never had to face that before.
Creighton smiled. "There's no way we can be connected to Staffeld." What he didn't say was that the sources who'd provided the information he'd ordered faked were dead—killed in various accidents, plus one who'd had a heart attack induced by a secret Company chemical. Even if the lies about Doug Powers were eventually exposed, none could be traced to the Redmonds. "When Powers started ranting, I told him he was blaming me when he should've kept his own house in order. That he was damn stupid as well as immoral to fuck kids. He hung up."
His brothers laughed.
The elevator stopped, and they strolled toward the ballroom. David was acutely aware of the three of them together. Their similarities far outweighed their differences, and right now the power they shared seemed invincible. Just two days ago they'd been here to mourn Marguerite, and Brice's aloofness had had its usual chilling effect. But not tonight. Brice was on board, and it gave David a comforting sense of tightness.
"What about Julia?" he asked. "Are you worried about her and that Sam Keeline you wanted the financial information on?"
"It's under control." Creighton pushed down his rage and worry. He had to protect his position. Without Julia, he'd have only the problem of the old man. Julia had turned into a Medusa—destructive and almost unstoppable in her selfish drive to avenge Marguerite's murder.
David went on, "As it turned out, we do Keeline's banking, including three of his credit cards through various of our companies, but he never tapped any of them for money after Vince called. That's odd, considering they must've needed resources so they could continue hiding."
"Not so odd. The asshole's damn smart. Don't forget he was a successful field agent for quite a while. But don't worry. I expect word sometime in the next hour that both he and Julia are out of the picture." Creighton paused. "And the old man, too. Did I mention he'd broken out of the nursing home?"
Brice and David froze. They stared at Creighton.
"Dad? Out?" Brice echoed. "Shit!"
"That could be trouble," David said, shaking his head.
"True." Creighton nodded. "But Vince's people will find him. Besides, the old man's senile, right? We proved that in court. No one's going to believe a thing the babbling old fool says."
They entered the ballroom. David and Brice were quiet, still worried. Creighton led them to the far right-hand wall where a long table covered in ivory damask was being set up as a bar. In the table's center stood an ice sculpture, the artist still at work carving. It was the seal of the United States—enormous, the American eagle's talons glitteringly sharp. At least six feet tall, the sculpture towered over them, smoky white. Tiny globes of melt were suspended on the surface. The sculpture was awesome and beautiful, a radiant centerpiece for a celebratory ball.
"How much is this costing?" David rumbled.
"Plenty." Creighton chuckled. "But then, who cares? There's a mechanical fountain inside. When it's time, champagne will flow out of the seal from about a dozen spouts. The cameras will love it. I can see it on CNN already."
As David and Brice chuckled, a white-coated servant hurried toward Creighton. "There's been another news development, sir. It's about Senator Powers's revolting past. The reporters would like to talk to you."
Creighton decided to meet with the journalists on the steps of the retreat. He gave them fifteen minutes to gather and set up their equipment, and then he strode outdoors, preceded and followed by several of his campaign staff. They took the same cobbled path he'd so often trod with trepidation for so many years in response to his father's autocratic summonses. In an odd way, he missed the old man. He'd have enjoyed witnessing his jealousy. It would've been something new . . . and gratifying.
The wrought-iron gate was open, and the reporters, photographers, and camera operators formed a tight pack before the steps that led up to the retreat's tall door. On this spot he'd announced his candidacy. Here, too, had been taken most of the photographs of the old man and various family members with presidents and other notables. Now those photos decorated the mansion's office and the offices of his brothers, children, nephews, and nieces. It was an important symbol to the whole family, and on some subliminal level many Americans would recognize it, too. That's what happened when enough prominent people were recorded on the same spot over enough decades. And now this place was Creighton's.
His press secretary stood on the top step and started the proceedings. "I've informed Judge Redmond about the new evidence that's surfaced regarding Chief Superintendent Geoffrey Staffeld. . . ."
Creighton repressed a smile. The AP reporter whom Vince had anonymously tipped had found the briefcase Maya Stern had left in Staffeld's room. It'd replaced the one Staffeld had carried since Heathrow. The new briefcase had no tracking device in the clasp for the police to discover, and inside were papers and photos documenting not only Powers's but Staffeld's own sorry deeds with children.
The message in blood on the wall above the tub had been made with Staffeld's own dead finger, so the print was indelible evidence of not only Powers's guilt, but Staffeld's. In the end, there seemed to be a consensus that Chief Superintendent Staffeld's remorse and sense of duty had driven him to reveal another sinner, one who shouldn't be president, and then to kill himself to end his long string of criminal deeds before he himself was found out. It was the spin Creighton had counted upon.
As the press secretary finished his introductory remarks, Creighton strode to the landing above the steps. His face was appropriately grim. His gaze swept the waiting throng. For a moment he felt as if he were back on the bench, surveying the respectful attorneys and worshipful audience members. And then he spun farther back in time to the rice paddies of Vietnam—to the fear of death, the smoking napalm, the bullets.
The old man had taught him ambition. Vietnam had taught him daring. And the Supreme Court had taught him he could rule. And so he savored the journalists' rapt silence, the interest that it indicated, and then he spoke in measured tones befitting the serious occasion.
"Ladies and gentlemen. From the beginning of this unfolding situation I've stressed the importance of not convicting a man until he's had a fair trial. I've had my doubts Douglas Powers could've committed the heinous acts of which he's accused. But we must face facts. Tomorrow's the election. There's little time for compelling evidence to emerge to prove Senator Powers's innocence. I personally loathe this situation, not only because of the seriousness of the crimes that have apparently been committed, but because we must all decide so quickly how to react."
He paused. Reporters busily scribbled in notebooks. Others held recorders high. Now it was time to come down hard against Powers. No more noble, hands-off attitude. But he had to do it in such a way that voters' respect for him would grow, and it'd be obvious they weren't getting second choice by voting for him. In fact, they were getting the better man.
His voice rose, powerful and commanding. "Now I call upon Senator Powers to come forth and admit to the crimes if he did indeed do them so the nation can react to his honesty with our
own honesty. Short of that, I think we must vote for the good of the country. Even if the senator is innocent, I fear these allegations will haunt his administration and America for years to come in a spectacle that will hurt our reputation abroad and, more importantly, deplete our ability to move our nation forward at home." His gaze swept the journalists. One of them nodded. He continued vigorously, "Our nation will be subjected to more rumors, more accusations, more investigations, perhaps even more evidence, and ultimately warrants for his arrest. We've suffered enough of that in previous administrations."
Now more nodded in agreement. He was an orator known for his charisma before a crowd. These journalists were hardened, cynical, and trained to distrust. But right now they were the only audience that mattered. After all, they were the ones doing battle in the scummy trenches of political scandal. If he could convince them, the nation would follow.
He looked several in the eyes. His voice reverberated with outrage as he appealed: "America is the world's leader. I don't see how we can in good conscience elect a man to the crucial position of president when we have such deep doubts, not only about his character, but about the cleanness of his hands . . . and his soul." More heads nodded. His voice rang out and power reverberated from him. "Under these circumstances, he cannot lead. He should not lead. Douglas Powers must not lead!"
Flashbulbs exploded. Cameras whirred. Creighton Redmond stood rooted to the spot as a wave of approval seemed to flow through the jaded press. The presidency had been the goal of his life. Nothing else mattered. He wanted it with all the ravening hunger of a starving man.
He waited, hoping—
Then the unthinkable happened. One of the reporters clapped. Then another. Soon the whole group was applauding. Their support radiated from their animated faces and it thundered from their clapping hands. They were Americans. They wanted an unsullied, honorable president. Creighton Redmond, upstanding former justice of the Supreme Court, was the one.
51
12:30 PM, MONDAY
NEW YORK CITY
Julia and Sam's rented Mustang was parked off Fifty-ninth Street. They discreetly abandoned the stolen cab and quickly jumped into the Mustang. Sam drove them out into the mass of traffic as Julia explained how seeing the priest and the sign at the soup kitchen had made her realize where Father Michael and Lyle had to be.
"The reason we haven't found them in Westchester is the priest wasn't living in Westchester. I think he must've met Grandpa in Oyster Bay, and after my uncles put Grandpa in the home, Father Michael's been driving up to visit him. Remember the German accent? He could be a traveling priest. My mother told me Grandpa was becoming more religious. He'd even gone to church two or three times a week. I'll bet they met at the family's parish church."
Sam turned the Mustang south on Second Avenue. "Then wouldn't Creighton or another of the Redmonds know this Father Michael?"
"Not necessarily. Going to mass is a sometime thing for my uncles. Creighton and Alexis are the only ones who live in Oyster Bay now, and they've been there just off and on since they sold their house in Washington. Their older kids are grown up and gone, like Vince, and the younger ones are in boarding schools. Since Grandpa got sent to the nursing home, Arbor Knoll's been mostly empty except for the servants."
"Where is this family church?"
"Oyster Bay. Saint Dominic's. They're a Dominican order, like the priests and nuns at the soup kitchen. That's what nudged my memory. We weren't sure why he'd escaped. . . . Well, going to Oyster Bay and confronting his sons sounds like what the Lyle Redmond I knew would do."
Now Sam was excited. "But if we've figured it out, so could Creighton or Vince."
She grimaced. "Unfortunately."
They drove out of Manhattan, through Queens, and into Nassau County. Julia turned on the radio and found an all-news station. "Let's hear the latest bad news."
He glanced at her. "I can't wait."
She smiled and leaned her head on his shoulder as the weather and sports' scores came on. Finally it was the news's turn: "The body of Geoffrey Staffeld of Scotland Yard was found earlier this afternoon in a hotel on the West Side. . ."
They listened without speaking to the report of Staffeld's apparent suicide, the note scrawled in blood on the wall, and the incriminating documents and photos in the briefcase.
"Oh, hell." Julia's voice was husky with shock. "So that's what the 'suicide' was all about. Hidden papers to prove Staffeld was a child molester, too! And his death by his own hand makes him look like he's sorry for what he did. You'd guessed something like this, Sam."
Sam nodded grimly as they heard part of Creighton's speech followed by a rousing denial from Douglas Powers: "I am no child molester! I have never met Geoffrey Staffeld! These are false allegations, and I will not rest until whoever's behind these charges is arrested and convicted! It's ridiculous to think. . ."
"Powers is finished." Sam shook his dark head. "All he can do is deny, but Staffeld's suicide makes him look even more guilty. One child molester comes forward to expose another for the good of America, but knowing it would sooner or later expose him, too. It takes one to know one, right? That guy knew what he was talking about." He looked out at the scenery along the parkway that was growing greener, with bigger houses, as they got farther from the city. "It explains what Maya and her gang were doing around the Chieftain and why they spotted us. They must've killed him and staged the suicide just before we got there."
"And I was so busy stealing Staffeld's gun I didn't think to look in his briefcase."
"Good, because your prints would've been on it. Powers is doomed. And it doesn't matter whether Staffeld raped little boys. Creighton could've constructed that evidence, too. Abraham Lincoln said, 'Public opinion in this country is everything.'"
"And Creighton's manipulated it to the point most people won't dare vote for Powers. They'll be too afraid of what the future will hold for America." With a sick feeling she realized something else: "I'll bet suicide is what Creighton had planned for me. That's why Stern would never just shoot me. If it looked as if I killed myself, then they'd not only get rid of me, it'd definitely appear I'd gone crazy, and my insanity was why I'd murdered Orion. Plus, if it looks as if you've killed yourself with me, Creighton's covered on all fronts."
Sam nodded. "Your grandfather's our only chance. We've got to find him."
They listened to more news reports that included descriptions of how they normally looked and a warning that they might be armed and dangerous.
She shook her head angrily. "I can't believe it's us they're talking about."
And finally there was a report of a previctory party at Arbor Knoll scheduled for later this afternoon. The announcer listed dozens of the notables who'd attend and reported the station would broadcast early coverage.
Sam pounded a fist on the steering wheel. "I can't believe he's going to win."
"We'll find some way to stop him," Julia vowed. Her hatred of Creighton was growing by the second. She was sure he was the cause of her mother's murder. For a blazing red moment, she wanted to kill him, too.
They rode in worried silence, passing the heaped detritus of old warehouses and factories and on into the autumn woodland of Long Island's small towns and residences. A sense of urgency filled the car as they turned off the interstate at highway 106 and sped north into horse country, where white picket fences, large yards, and a gentle rural flavor permeated the homes, stores, and businesses.
Julia hadn't seen this area in years, and her thirsty gaze wanted to revel in it. But her brain was working feverishly, trying to figure out how to defang Creighton. Trying to imagine a way to kill—
She wouldn't allow herself to finish the thought.
Highway 106 became South Street, and at last they drove into the waterfront hamlet of Oyster Bay with its fishing-village ambience. Flocks of seagulls flew overhead, and anchors, sails, and other ocean regalia decorated picturesque storefronts.
Julia directed Sam up a hill to a
side street. "We'll walk from here. Just in case—" They parked on a quiet lane of white frame houses and old, branching trees.
Sam said nothing. He knew what she meant by just in case. . . . In case Maya Stern or some of the Janitors had decided to check out the local Catholic church, too.
Saint Dominic's stood on the corner of Anstice Street and Weeks Avenue. It was a lovely stone building with arched stained-glass windows and a tall steeple. The church's campus extended along the block, including a rectory and a convent. Across the street were Saint Dominic High School as well as a sports center and a parish office. It was a large campus for such a small town, obviously valued by local residents.
The invigorating scent of the salty bay infused the air. Sunlight slanted through trees that still held a few brown leaves. Julia led Sam through the parking lot behind the church. They, searched everywhere for any sign of Maya Stern or her goons.
And saw the battered green Volkswagen van.
"That's it," she breathed. "That's the van I saw the priest in."
Sam wasn't happy. "He might as well put out an advertisement. Either Father Michael and your grandfather are here, or Creighton's people have found them, too, and left the van behind."
They hurried in through the side door of the church. It was silent and appeared empty. They padded down the red-carpeted aisle toward the altar. The sanctuary was lined in dark, polished woods. Red votive candles flickered ahead beyond the wood pews. The air seemed hushed, waiting.
This wasn't Sam's department. "What do we do now?"
Julia looked all around. Somewhere in this building or in one of the buildings on the church grounds her grandfather could be hiding. They could try each building, but there was no guarantee her grandfather would show himself. She had to find some way to communicate to him who she was and that it was safe to come out—
And then she saw an answer. Above the tiled entryway was a small balcony, and on it stood an organ that overlooked the pews and faced the altar.
