Pot of Gold

by Judith Michael

She couldn't bring Gina into it. Not now; he was too angry. She couldn't even pretend there was someone else; she'd lied to him too many times. "I didn't," she whispered. She cleared her throat. "I didn't tell anyone."

  "You're lying."

  "I was worried about you; you don't tell me about your work, hardly at all, but I was worried about you and—"

  "Not enough. God damn it, how many people did you talk to,? There are rumors all over the lab."

  "There are not! You would have said something earlier."

  "Well, aren't you a clever little debater. I heard it just today, at the Christmas party, somebody asked me about putting off the release."

  "But you told me that's what you were going to do. Why wouldn't people know that.? Everybody would know that."

  "I told you that story could hurt our reputation if it got out. Remember that.? We didn't broadcast it. But Emma did. Emma didn't care, did she.? Little Emma didn't care about the company, or about Brix—"

  "I did! I do!" Emma knew he wasn't making sense; she knew she was right and he was twisting things; but she was confused and she was becoming alarmed. Brix had never talked to her like this. Everything that was happening seemed ominous, as if doors

  were slamming, as if everything was ending. She looked down at the steaming cup of coffee in front of her and wondered if it would make her feel better or worse. She picked it up and drank recklessly, scalding her tongue. Tears came to her eyes. "Brix, we were so happy, you were so nice and loving, why are you doing this?"

  "Because you're not my girl. My girl is somebody I can count on. My girl is somebody who never does anything I ask her not to do. I protect my girl from wild animals and she protects me from anything that could hurt me. I thought that was you, but I was wrong, wasn't I.^ That isn't you, is it.^"

  "Yes," Emma whispered. "Yes, it is. It is. It is." Hannah's smile and clear voice were gone; Emma was cold and alone and Brix was pushing her away and she thought she would die. "I am your girl, Brix. I'd do anything for you, I'd never hurt you, I'd never do anything you didn't want me to do."

  "But you did," he said almost amiably.

  "No, I told you—"

  "But I know you lied and you're lying now and you lie all the time, and there's nothing that I hate more than a liar."

  Emma's head came up. "You don't hate me, Brix. You're just saying that to punish me. But you don't, not really; you couldn't." She struggled through the fog of her thoughts. "You've been so wonderful all through dinner, and you knew all this the whole time, and you didn't say anything, you said I was a special girl, you said I was your sweetheart, you were loving —"

  "Well, I changed my mind," he said flatly, and stared at her as if they had never met.

  Emma gave a cry and slid along the banquette to get out from behind the table. A waiter came swiftly and pulled the table out so she could stand up. "Down the stairs, mademoiselle," he said, his eyes worried at her despairing look. Emma barely saw him; she scurried between the tables, between the curious faces turned her way, to a doorway in the corner of the room, and disappeared through it.

  Brix watched her go. Too bad, he thought. She's the most terrific-looking girl I've ever had. Sweet, too.

  He had known for some time he would have to get rid of Emma. There was no other way he could be sure of shutting her up. He'd already waited longer than he should have, but he'd

  kept putting it off because he got a kick out of those big eyes looking at him as if he were God, and he'd never known a girl who turned him on the way she did. But he'd known he had to do it even before the Christmas party that afternoon. He knew damn well she'd told somebody about those memos; that was how Len came to ask him about the rumor that they were delaying the release of the PK-20 line. Whatever Emma had blabbed, it hadn't been too specific; if it had, Len wouldn't have called it a rumor. Brix had been able to stop Len cold, telling him it was just somebody going overboard with the Christmas punch. You could get people to believe anything if their jobs depended on it the way Len's depended on the success of PK-20. So it was all right for now, but Emma was a loose cannon and Brix couldn't risk letting her get to Len or anybody else, even accidentally dropping something, because a rumor doesn't have to be repeated more than a few times before it begins to sound like fact.

  Of course, no one would want to believe it because all of their jobs, like Len's, were at risk. And since the company was geared up for shipping in March, probably no one would even pay serious attention to it.

  But his father would.

  He would lose his father's trust; he would never again be close to him as he had been lately when he really began to believe Quentin had confidence in him, needed him, depended on him more than anyone else. All that would be gone forever if his father knew he'd left that folder lying on his desk for Emma and anyone else to read, exploding what had been a perfect secret, so perfect even Brix had begun to forget it.

  But there was something else, too. This was a time of crisis for his father and; Emma could blow everything wide open—unless Brix stopped her. Now, truly, even though Quentin did not know it, he depended on Brix for the future of the company. Brix would save his father, save the company, be the guardian of what was most important to Quentin: all his plans for influence on a bigger stage. Without me, it would all fall apart, Brix thought. Without me he'd be nothing. I'm all there is between him and disaster.

  He took from his pocket a tiny envelope and opened it. Leaning forward as if to adjust the candles on the table, shielding his cognac glass with his body, he tipped the envelope over it. He watched the pale powder, as fine as dust, settle onto the surface

  of the amber liquid; he held the balloon of the glass in his palm and swirled the cognac, helping the powder to dissolve. A true chemist, he thought cheerfully; you can tell my daddy owns a laboratory; maybe it's in the genes. Still leaning forward, in one smooth motion he casually slid his cognac glass to Emma's place and pulled hers toward him. With the stem between his fingers, he cupped it in his palm and sat back, holding it below his nose, luxuriating in its heady fumes.

  That was most of it, he thought. The groundwork had been laid earlier. He had gotten the Halcion from a friend, the same strength Emma took, and ground it up in the lab. He'd purposely come early to her hotel room to take her to dinner, knowing she'd be dressing, and he'd taken her prescription bottle of Halcion from her purse and dumped its contents into his pocket, then slid it almost out of sight between the lamp and the radio. Emma would be unlikely to spot it there, but the people who found her would be looking for something like it and would find it in a few seconds flat.

  There was only one more step to take; then he would have covered all the bases. And for that, he needed Emma.

  She came back, pale but steady. Once again the waiter pulled out the table for her and she sat in her place. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to make a scene."

  "Drink your cognac, and then we'll go," he said.

  "I don't want it."

  "You've made enough trouble for tonight; drink it. I planned this dinner for the two of us, and you're going to do the whole thing."

  "Brix, you know I don't like the taste—"

  "Emma."

  She looked at him. "Why is it so important to you that I drink.^ I'd be the same person if I didn't. We'd still have fun together and make love together and . . . love each other."

  "You don't know what love is. Love is making somebody happy."

  "I make you happy. You told me I do."

  "You did," Brix said, nodding judiciously. "You really did. You were a nice girl and we had a good time, and I got you your job. Maybe you forgot that. You wouldn't be anything without me; we'd have another Eiger Girl. I think you forgot that. You got

  so full of yourself you forgot what love means, and what trust means; all you care about is being the center of attention, getting people to think you're important. I guess that makes you a good model, but it sure as hell makes you a lousy girlfriend."

  "I don't want t
o feel important! Brix, I told you—"

  "Keep your voice down. And then when I plan a special dinner—I spent a lot of time thinking about this dinner, what we'd eat and what we'd drink, and I did it for you; I wouldn't have done it for anybody else—you sit there and say, 'I don't want it.' Christ, you don't know the first thing about love."

  Emma looked at him for a long moment. "You're the one who doesn't know anything about love," she said, and picked up her glass and drained it.

  She gasped, trying to get her breath. Her face and throat felt as if they were on fire. Tears came to her eyes and ran down her cheeks.

  "That was a stupid thing to do," Brix said.

  "Don't," Emma whispered. "Don't talk." She breathed in with a wheezing sound. "You've ruined everything."

  "Then leave," he said flatly. "If you don't like the way I do things, you don't have to hang around. I can't stand crying anyway."

  Still wheezing, Emma stared at him. "You want me to go.'"'

  "That's what I said. Christ, it takes you a long time to get the point. The hotel's just across the street; even you couldn't get lost. Go on."

  There are lots of different kinds of love, but the only one that is inexcusable is the one that is a false front for cruelty or manipulation.

  She was still staring at him. The restaurant had disappeared; Emma felt as if they were alone in a vast, barren field, absolutely silent, with an empty horizon stretching forever in all directions. "You've set this up, this whole dinner, to destroy us."

  "You'd already done that," he said carelessly, and picked up his cognac, looking past her.

  Emma hesitated, then pushed herself along the banquette before the waiter could get to her and ran through the restaurant, still wheezing, tears running down her cheeks. She ran outside. "Mademoiselle!" cried the maitre d'. "Your coat!"

  "It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter." She

  ran across the street. Drivers honked and swore at her as she dodged between the cars and got to the other sidewalk. She was shivering in her thin dress, and her tears were Hke icicles on her face. She stumbled in her high heels and fell to one knee, and a hand grasped her arm and helped her to her feet. She looked up, into the stern face of one of the hotel doormen.

  "Didn't know when to stop, did you, young lady.^" he said. "Too much to drink and now you're going to catch your death."

  "Yes." Emma felt dizzy and, suddenly, so sleepy. "Please, if I could just get to my room ..."

  "You're staying in this hotel.^" he demanded in disbelief.

  She nodded. "Ten . . . something. I can't remember . . ."

  Holding her arm, he half dragged her into the hotel, past cheerfully singing birds in an aviary, and up to the registration desk. "Ask him," he said.

  Emma tried to focus on the clerk. "Emma Goddard. I can't remember my room ..."

  The clerk tapped impatient fingers on his computer keys. "Ten twenty-one," he said coldly. His eyes were hard. "Do you have your key.'^"

  She nodded, then realized she had left her purse on the banquette. "No. I'm sorry, I ... I left my purse in the ... in the restaurant."

  The clerk called a bellhop and handed him a key. "Take her upstairs."

  "Listen," the doorman said. "I don't think she's drunk, you know. I think she's sick."

  "Get her upstairs," the clerk repeated.

  The bellhop put his arm around Emma and took her to the elevator. "You'll feel better when you're in bed," he said; it was not the first time he had done this, and he knew how to make his voice sound comforting. "I'll have them send up some tea."

  Emma shook her head. She was so sleepy she could barely talk. "I'll just sleep. I'm . . . fine . . . Thank . . ." Her voice trailed away in a long sigh, and as the elevator doors opened, the bellhop took a quick look behind him, in the direction of the restaurant across the street, wondering why no one had come with her to make sure she stayed on her feet at least until she got to her room.

  In the restaurant, Brix finished his cognac and strode to the door. "She'll sleep it off," he said to no one in particular, but the maitre d' heard him.

  "Her coat, monsieur," he said.

  "Oh." He had forgotten about her coat. "Sure," he said after a moment. "Thanks." He left a ten-dollar bill on the coat check counter and gave a twenty to the maitre d'. "Sorry she made such a scene. They get irrational, you know; when they want to get married, that's all they can think about. Even if the other person doesn't want to."

  The maitre d' nodded icily, watching Brix leave. He was not interested in the problems of his customers, unless they were the ones who came several times a week, month after month. Those he would listen to with dignified interest. For this young man and his young lady, however beautiful she was, he had only contempt, because they drank too much and behaved improperly.

  He saw one of the waiters holding something, striding rapidly toward him. "The young lady's purse," the waiter said. "She left it on the banquette."

  "I'll take it." Sighing with exasperation—he only wanted to be through with these people—the maitre d' laid it on the shelf within his podium. Later, when he had time, he would look through it for her name and address, so it could be returned. Or she would come to retrieve it. It was all the same to him.

  Asshole, Brix thought as he stood on the curb, waiting for a lull in the traffic. In another minute he walked across the street and into the hotel. He went to the registration desk. "Did my friend come back to the hotel.-^ Emma Goddard."

  "She's in her room," said the clerk. "She seemed . . .unwell."

  "She was upset. You know, when they want to get married, that's all they can think about. Even if the other person doesn't want to."

  The clerk nodded shortly. His view of the world was strict and uncompromising. He would never abandon his girl the way this guy had, letting her run around drunk and falling apart. Of course the clerk would never go out with a girl who drank herself into a stupor, but if a girl did drink a little too much one time, and was crying and unhappy, too, any decent man would stay with her and at least get her back to her room. It's a shame we have to let that kind of people into our hotel, thought the clerk.

  "My key," Brix said. "Brix Eiger, fifteen oh nine."

  "Good night, sir," the clerk said, handing Brix his key. He watched him go to the elevator. At least the guy took a separate room; most of them didn't do that anymore. You could give him credit for that, the clerk thought, but not much else.

  In the elevator, Brix made a comment about the cold weather to one of the strangers standing beside him. "I'll say you must feel the cold," said the stranger. "Wearing one coat and carrying a spare."

  For the first time Brix realized he was carrying Emma's coat. He chuckled. "A friend left it in the restaurant. I'll give it to her tomorrow. She won't need it tonight; she's too busy sleeping off a very lavish dinner, which she drank very lavishly."

  The stranger smiled uncomfortably. There was something forced and unforgiving in Brix that bothered him. He was silent, as were the other two people in the elevator. "Good night," Brix said genially at the fifteenth floor, and turned to walk to his room. He'd watch television for a few hours, he thought; he was too edgy to sleep. Then, about seven in the morning, he'd call Emma, and when she didn't answer, he'd call the desk or security or somebody. The more people he could get involved the better. It was amazing how easy it was to do what had to be done: simple, straightforward, and smart. No complications. That was him, Brix Eiger. Smart. His father's indispensable right-hand man.

  EIGHTEEN

  Q

  ^^ DENTIN'S house was brilliantly lit: lanterns

  blazed along the cobblestone front walk, the porch lights on either side of the white front door, and all the paned windows, shone, and even the lights in the backyard were at full strength, illuminating the trees towering above the house. "A party," Alex murmured as he stopped at the curb. "Or he's afraid someone might sneak up on him."

  Claire saw the house as if for the first
time. She was not revisiting a place filled with memories, she was thinking of Emma, and so all that occurred to her as she looked at it was how sleek and self-satisfied it looked, the perfect house for its owner, who could walk through troubled families, ruined relationships, perhaps even criminal acts, and remain unscathed. It looked like a mansion from another time that would house lesser royalty, a place more sheltered from the whims of fortune than her own. But we re not sheltered at all. We can't buy what Emma needs now; we can't even buy the time it will take to get to her.

  "You go in," Gina said from the back seat. "I wouldn't be anv help at all."

  "I hope we won't be long," Alex said, and he and Claire walked to the front door between low, square-cut hedges lined up like squat sentinels guarding the house. He rang the doorbell, but it was Claire whom the butler saw first, when the door opened.

  "Mrs. Goddard!" he exclaimed, showing, by his surprise, that Claire had been thoroughly erased from Quentin's guest lists.

  "Mr. Eiger didn't tell me . . ." He saw Alex, and confusion spread over his face. "I'm so sorry; we did not expect you, or. . . anyone else."

  "We're not staying, we just want to talk to Mr. Eiger for a few minutes," Claire said. She pushed past him, with Alex just behind her. "Is he in the study.^"

  "No, madame, in his bedroom. If you'll wait, I will tell him—"

  "It's all right; I know the way." Without any sense of irony, Claire moved familiarly through the foyer, past tall vases of ginger flowers and lilies, past the open door to the dining room where she caught a glimpse of a lavish buffet, then up the wide staircase to Quentin's bedroom. The door was ajar and she and Alex stood to the side as she knocked.

  "Yes," Quentin said, and opened the door. His face froze; Claire had never seen him taken so completely by surprise.

  "I'm sorry to bother you," she said, speaking quickly to forestall anything he might say, and also to mask her own surprise: she had not thought she would be so stunned by the impact of his presence, even now, after weeks away from him. "We won't take much time; we only need to talk to you for a minute. We're trying to find Emma and Brix. Emma said she had a scheduled photo session in New York, but we don't know where they're staying tonight and—"