Spellbinder

by Collin Wilcox

  “What if he insists, though?” Mitchell asked quietly.

  “If he insists,” Flournoy said, “then he loses. We call the police. Until he’s caught, we’ll keep Austin secure. Under wraps, so to speak. If necessary, we’ll use a rerun on Sunday. We’ll say it’s got something to do with the China Crusade. We’ll suggest some secret negotiations with the Chinese.” Thinking about it, Flournoy nodded, plainly pleased with the strategy. “Actually,” he said thoughtfully, “it could work out to be a plus.” He nodded again, more decisively this time. “It could be a definite plus, if it’s handled right. You know—” He turned to Holloway. “We could suggest a parallel between the secret diplomacy that preceded Nixon’s visit to China.”

  Slowly, Holloway shook his head. “We can’t tell the police, Howard. We can threaten to do it. But we can’t actually do it.”

  “But—” Flournoy sawed the air with a sharp, impatient wave of his hand. “But we don’t have a choice. If he won’t be reasonable—if, in fact, he’s dangerous—then we’ve got to call the police.”

  “If he’s arrested,” Holloway said, “and it comes out that he’s my—” He paused, reluctant to put it into words for the first time. “—that’s he’s my illegitimate son, then it’s all over. Everything. It’ll be a matter of public record. And I’ll be finished. We’ll all be finished.”

  “I don’t agree,” Flournoy retorted. “There might be a scandal, yes. Or, more like it, a breath of scandal. But these things can be handled.”

  “How?” Mitchell asked, staring steadily at the other man. Mitchell’s broad, muscle-bunched face was impassive. His eyes were opaque, revealing nothing. But the question remained: a hard, uncompromising monosyllable, challenging Flournoy to respond.

  “At the moment,” Flournoy said acidly, “I can’t answer that. After all, I’ve only known about this—this new development for a few minutes.” He turned to Holloway, asking: “Is your name on the birth certificate as the father?”

  “No. That was part of the deal. The father is listed as unknown. Julian—her brother—worked out the details. Which is how he got on the payroll, all these years.”

  “Well, then—” For the first time, Flournoy smiled: a tight, mirthless twisting of his lips, leaving his eyes still cold and calculating. “Well, then, our move is obvious. If he’s arrested, and tries to smear you, then we finesse the issue. Which, to evoke Nixon again, is what happened in Watergate. Or, rather, didn’t happen. Instead of covering up, Nixon should simply have admitted that something silly happened. The whole problem would have been defused.”

  “This isn’t exactly something silly,” Mitchell said mildly.

  “I’m not saying it’s something silly,” Flournoy countered sharply; staring coldly at the other man. “I’m simply saying that there are parallels.”

  “What kind of parallels?” Unblinking, Mitchell spoke in the same mild, quiet voice, implacably insistent.

  “Never mind the goddamn—” Angrily, Flournoy broke off. “Never mind the parallels. All I’m saying is that we should meet the problem head on. We could say, for instance, that the woman was already pregnant when she first met Austin, and that she asked Austin for help. He was touched by her plight, and offered to help her support her child. After all, as I understand it, the woman’s insane. So she lacks credibility. Even if she contests the story, which seems doubtful, she won’t be believed. And her brother, by the sound of it, can be bought. He probably has been bought, already. That just leaves James Carson—a criminal.” Flournoy spread his hands. “And who’s going to believe a criminal, if there’s nothing substantive to confirm his story?”

  “The problem with that plan,” Holloway said quietly, “is that I’ve sent her hundreds of thousands of dollars, during the past twenty-seven years. That’s a fact. And facts speak louder than words, in matters like this. Especially in the newspapers.”

  “But the money can’t be traced.”

  “It can’t be readily traced. But it can probably be traced if the bank records were subpoenaed.”

  “Well,” Flournoy retorted defensively, “I’m not saying it’s a perfect solution. After all, we’ve got a difficult situation on our hands, no question. But it’s a possible solution. It’s one line of attack. And a good line, I think.”

  For a long moment the three sat silently, each man staring off in a different direction, thinking. Finally Mitchell cleared his throat. “The best thing that could happen,” he said softly, “is that the police would catch up with him—and kill him.”

  Sixteen

  SITTING WITH HIS HEAD resting against the back of his tall, leather desk chair, eyes half closed, Holloway watched Mitchell and Flournoy exchange a quick, appraising glance of mutual speculation and evaluation. In the silence that followed, it was clear that, after all the words and all the planning, Mitchell had summed up the sense of the meeting: a payoff might solve the problem, but something more permanent—death—would be a more desirable solution.

  As the silence lengthened, neither the manager nor the security chief had looked at Holloway. It was an instinctive reaction—and a proper one. In the Vatican, certain temporal problems required solutions that must be undertaken without the Pope’s knowledge.

  In the Temple of Today, over the years, similar problems had been encountered—and would be encountered again. Machinery had been created to handle the solutions. If the Pope had his Vatican guard, Holloway had Mitchell and his staff: five big, tough, gun-carrying thugs, each one dressed in a blue business suit, their uniform. And, in addition, he had Flournoy, the fixer. If Mitchell made a mess, Flournoy would clean it up.

  For now, then, the conference had served its purpose. The problem had been defined, and the alternatives discussed: the checkbook solution and the solution by force. Next, Flournoy and Mitchell would discuss ways and means. When their plans were complete, Flournoy would make his report.

  So, for now, it was time to call a recess.

  “If you gentlemen will excuse me,” Holloway said, “I must call Denise.”

  As he said it, Mitchell rose from his chair, saying: “I’ll see whether there’ve been any more calls.” As he spoke, he turned to Flournoy. “Shall we talk later?”

  Still seated, Flournoy nodded. It was another of his prerogatives that, in any meeting, Flournoy was the last to leave: the principal baron, remaining behind in the throne room for a few final words.

  “Definitely,” Flournoy said. “I’ll come to your office.”

  “Good.” Mitchell nodded to Holloway and turned toward the door. On the parquet floor, his footsteps were noiseless. The big, broad-shouldered man was incredibly light on his feet.

  Flournoy waited for the door to close, then said, “Of course, the police aren’t going to kill him for us, desirable though that would be. However, if we agree on a price, and if Mitchell delivers the money, he might be lucky enough to get his hands on Carson. If that happened, and he gave Carson the beating of his life, we might not have any more trouble with him.”

  On cue, Holloway shook his head. “I don’t think—”

  “I’m no authority on violence,” Flournoy put in smoothly, deftly interrupting. “Quite the opposite,” he added, his fastidious smirk implying that he disapproved of anything so elemental, and therefore so uncontrollable. “However, I’ve always understood that people change, after a beating. Especially if they know that the next beating will be worse—and the one after that worse yet. Et cetera, et cetera.”

  Holloway waved a hand in a gesture that projected both resignation and tacit agreement. The Pope, in similar circumstances, would offer his ring, casting his eyes demurely up toward heaven.

  Also on cue, Flournoy changed the subject: “Did Denise say anything about Katherine when she talked to Marge?”

  “No. But she phoned over the weekend and I gather that she’s just about run out of patience. Which, of course, is understandable. I expect she’s calling to say that she’s had enough. It’s been two weeks now. What
’d you think? Is it safe to bring Katherine back?”

  “I think,” Flournoy said, “that, definitely, The Hour could use her, next Sunday. The mail is starting to show that she’s being missed. People don’t realize that she hasn’t actually spoken more than a few words at a time for years, you know. To some of the old timers, she’s important—symbolically, at least. You know—the symbol of motherhood, and the family. And I don’t have to tell you that, statistically, most of the money comes from the fifty to seventy-year-old group.”

  “I wasn’t speaking about The Hour. I was speaking about Katherine’s—legal problems.”

  “Things are settling down very nicely,” Flournoy said. “We have a waiver from the girl’s parents.”

  Approvingly, Holloway nodded. “That was a good move, Howard. A very good move.”

  Gravely, Flournoy inclined his beautifully barbered head: thick brown hair, graying in distinguished streaks at the temples. “Thank you.”

  “There won’t be any problem with her parents, then.”

  “None,” Flournoy answered confidently.

  “What about the press?”

  Flournoy considered the question, saying finally, “If we keep Katherine away from the reporters—absolutely away—I don’t think there’ll be a problem.”

  “So you think I should bring her home.”

  Obviously unwilling to commit himself completely, playing the percentages, Flournoy gave a deprecatory shrug. “There’re no guarantees, of course. However, provided we make very sure she’s kept under constant surveillance. I think we’re safe. And, obviously, she’s got to come home sometime.”

  “All right.” He looked at the phone. “I’ll call Denise and tell her that—”

  The phone rang. Exchanging a look of uneasy surprise with his manager, Holloway eyed the phone. Had he neglected to have his calls held? Whether he’d remembered or not, Marge should know better than to interrupt them.

  Unless—

  After another look, this time one of apprehension, he picked up the receiver.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Holloway—” It was Marge, her voice deeply apologetic. “I’m very sorry to interrupt you. But it’s Denise again. I should have told you before, but she wasn’t calling from her home. And so she’s been waiting at a neighborhood store—a grocery store, for you to call back. I’m very sorry, sir. I should have mentioned it before. But I thought—” She let it go unfinished, plainly flustered by her own temerity.

  “It’s quite all right, Marge. There’s no problem—no problem at all. Put her on, please.”

  And, a moment later, Denise was saying, “Dad?”

  “Yes, Denise; I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you, dear. I thought you were phoning from home. It was a misunderstanding on my part. I’m sorry.”

  “Actually,” she said, “it was my fault. I just gave the number. I should have filled Marge in.”

  “Is there anything wrong, Denise?”

  “Well—” He heard her pause, collecting her thoughts. She’d always done that, even as a child. Denise considered before she spoke. Unlike Elton, who’d never acquired a knack for reflection.

  “Well,” she said, “there’s nothing wrong, exactly. It’s just that—well—I’ve had it. And Mother’s had it, too. We’re—lately, the past few days—we’re getting on each other’s nerves. And then, now—today—everything came apart. I—I feel badly about it. And I realize that it’s my fault. Or, anyhow, most of it. But the fact is that I just can’t—” Despairingly, she let it go unfinished.

  “Denise, it’s all right. It’s been two weeks. I understand. I’ll make arrangements for her to come home, as soon as you like.” As he spoke, his glance crossed Flournoy’s. Still seated, Flournoy nodded toward the door, mutely asking whether he should leave the office. Shaking his head in response, Holloway spoke again into the phone: “I’ll get hold of Elton, and a security man. They’ll make arrangements, and Elton will call you. Is that all right?”

  “It’s all right with me, Dad. But I don’t think Mother’s going to like it.”

  Aware of a quick, foreboding tightness in his chest, he let a beat pass before he asked: “Why do you say that, Denise?”

  “Well, it’s—” Once more she hesitated. Then: “It’s hard to explain. But, if I had to guess, I’d say that Mother had a kind of a crisis here, today. Actually, I’ve seen it coming for days. Two days, at least. As nearly as I can explain it—or speculate about it—she came up here with the idea that I was her last hope. She seemed to feel that she and I could—” A brief, sharp sigh, infinitely regretful. Then: “That she and I could find each other again, maybe. I think she felt, at least subconsciously, that when I took her in, I was accepting her—that we’d somehow restored the mother-daughter relationship we used to have, years ago, before she—she started to drink, and before I—grew up. And then, when she realized that it wasn’t going to happen—that, really, nothing had changed—she started to feel rejected, I guess. Or insecure. Or just plain desperate. Maybe the thought of what she did—of that crippled child—is having a delayed effect. I don’t know. But I do know that she needs help. She needs reassurance—lots of reassurance. Or love. Or whatever you want to call it. She—”

  “Denise. What’re you trying to say?”

  He heard her draw another breath—another long, deep sigh, filled with a daughter’s remorse. “What I’m trying to say, Dad, is that she wants you. She wants to see you. Now. Here.”

  “There? But that’s—” Involuntarily, he looked at Flournoy. “That’s impossible. I’ve got some very—” He broke off. Whatever he said to her now, it would be wrong. Hopelessly, abysmally wrong.

  How had it happened? How had his world turned suddenly so sour? Was it age? Illness? Fate?

  And how, suddenly, had it all come down to a single point in time? How had it happened that both his bastard son and his drunken wife, two nemeses, should demand their separate pounds of flesh: instant payment on debts that might, admittedly, have been accruing for decades?

  On the other end of the phone line, his daughter was waiting for an answer. His wife was waiting, too—waiting for him to come to San Francisco, and pretend to heal her, perpetuating the myth of a love that had somehow sustained their marriage, keeping its fiction intact so that, every Sunday, they could smile for the cameras.

  While somewhere in Los Angeles, James Carson waited for tomorrow, when he would call and make his demand for blood money.

  Tomorrow …

  Into the phone he said, “Just a minute, Denise.” Then, with his palm covering the phone, he spoke to Flournoy: “Katherine wants me to come up there, to San Francisco. Immediately. Apparently she had some kind of a breakdown.”

  Flournoy frowned, displeased. “A breakdown? Is it serious?”

  “I’m not sure. It sounds like it could be serious.”

  Flournoy’s frown faded, replaced by a reflective pursing of his mouth and a look of thoughtful speculation in his eyes. “Maybe you should go,” he said. “Maybe you should take Elton, and a couple of security men, and fly up and get her. You could do it tomorrow. You could leave early in the morning, and come back tomorrow night. By that time—” Flournoy spread his hands. “By that time, we may have a resolution of this other matter. And while we’re taking care of it, down here, it might be just as well if you were out of town.”

  Yes—” He nodded in slow, thoughtful agreement. If Mitchell were successful tomorrow in punishing Carson, it might be better—more prudent—to be out of town. He nodded again, more decisively. Then, uncovering the phone, he said, “I’ll be there tomorrow, Denise. Before noon. Tell your mother, will you?”

  He could hear an almost palpable relief in his daughter’s voice as she said, “Tomorrow. That’s wonderful, Dad. I’ll tell her. Thank you.”

  Answering, he lowered his voice to a deeper note, pronouncing benediction: “You’re welcome, Denise. You’re very welcome.”

  Seventeen

  HE WATCHE
D THE BLOND girl slip the credit card and the sales voucher into the computer. Now she was attentively waiting, pen poised, while the machine began a series of preliminary clicks. The next seconds would be critical. If the card had been reported stolen—if Uncle Julian had betrayed him—he would probably first see it in her face: a flicker of the eye, a momentary tightening of the mouth as she glanced furtively toward him.

  Another series of clicks. And, still, the girl’s broad, flat face registered nothing. It was a bovine face—a German peasant’s face, with its thick, flaxen hair and large, heavy jaw. Quickly, he glanced over his shoulder toward the nearest exit. Beyond the exit, an airport security guard stood beside a baggage rack, talking to a tall, stoop-shouldered skycap.

  A final series of clicks, and the machine ejected the card and the voucher. The blond girl wrote on the voucher, smiled at him, and passed the voucher across the counter.

  Uncle Julian had cooperated.

  He signed the voucher, passed it back to her, then watched her eyes discreetly drop to the card and the voucher, comparing signatures. Now she smiled again, a trifle more cordially this time, and returned the credit card to him. The second copy of the voucher came next, for him to keep.

  “You didn’t like the Datsun?” she asked.

  “I like it, all right. But I need something a little bigger. Besides, I’ve always liked Fords.”

  She nodded and gave him a set of keys. “If you’ll just go through there—” She pointed to a door marked Hertz—“they’ll get your car for you. I hope you like your Ford. And thank you for thinking of Hertz.”

  He parked the Ford behind a white Volkswagen. With the engine still running, he moved across to the passenger’s seat and looked down the sidewalk toward the huge iron gate that marked the entrance to the Holloway estate. Yes, the angle was perfect. He could see the gates without being seen himself. He switched off the engine, turned off the lights and settled low in the passenger seat. The time was fifteen minutes after nine. Being careful to slide down in the seat when the sector car drove past, usually at thirty-minute intervals, he would wait until midnight, watching the entrance for any signs of unusual activity, especially police cars, with their telltale antennas and their grim, stolid passengers, always watchful. Tonight, he wouldn’t get out of the car, wouldn’t risk another brush with Holloway’s security men, some of them apparently posted on the outside perimeter of the eight-foot wall that surrounded the property.