Vengeance: Mystery Writers of America Presents

by Lee Child

  “We should go see Mr. Underwood, shouldn’t we?”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I say.

  “It’s better if we’re together.” She opens the door and starts down the hall, leaving me to catch up.

  There’s no answer when I knock. I try the doorknob. It’s not locked.

  That cracked glass is still on the coffee table, the champagne is floating in the melted ice, and the fruit is getting a little brown around the edges. Bishop is nowhere in sight. I stick my head in the bedroom, but the bed hasn’t been slept in.

  Shonna Lee takes the few remaining bits of ice from the bucket and drops them into the cracked glass. She wraps a napkin around the bottle and pours just a tad of bourbon too, then she flicks the crack with the bourbon bottle, and the glass crumbles so liquid leaks onto the table. She puts the bottle on the table next to the glass and folds the napkin again before she looks at me, then at the bathroom door.

  I don’t hear the shower or any movement behind it. I knock a couple of times, but nobody answers. I try the knob.

  Bish is lying on the floor, blood on the sink, blood on the toilet, blood around his mouth, blood soaking the white bath mat. His eyes are bulging and his face is blue.

  I come back into the room and see the girl dipping one of the remaining strawberries in whipped cream. Her face looks like I don’t have any surprises for her.

  “What was in that envelope?” I ask.

  “What envelope?” Her voice is smoother than the whipped cream and I feel a cold lump in my stomach.

  “You flushed it down my toilet, didn’t you?”

  She looks at the champagne bottle leaning against the side of the bucket, then picks up another strawberry.

  “I was with you all night, Jack. I’m your alibi.”

  “I had no reason to want him dead.”

  She raises her eyebrows and bites into that strawberry. I remember the night in jail when he made me give up my songs. And the day he sold my guitar. And all the rest of it.

  “They’ll think he was so drunk he swallowed the broken glass.”

  Along with the hot sugar she hid it in.

  “Jesus,” I say. “What an awful way to go.”

  “I imagine.” She licks her fingers delicately. “Probably even worse than hanging.”

  For a second, I think I’m going to throw up. “What’s your real name?”

  “Shonna Lee.”

  We look each other in the eye. She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out another envelope.

  “Shonna Lee Mattix.”

  My voice feels heavy as lead. “Why not me too?”

  She hands me the envelope. It’s addressed to the Mattix family in Tillerville, Mississippi, and I recognize my own handwriting.

  She’s right. Things never go away. They just go underground until their time comes around again.

  “I’m your alibi too, aren’t I?”

  “Only if you tell them my full name.” She slides the envelope back into her jacket and her eyes meet mine again. “And why would you do that?”

  I pick up the phone and dial the front desk.

  THE FINAL BALLOT

  BY BRENDAN DuBOIS

  Eventually the room emptied of the two state police detectives, the detective from the Manchester Police Department, the Secret Service agent, the emergency room physician, and the patient representative from the hospital, until only one man remained with her, standing in one corner of the small hospital room used to brief family members about what was going on with their loved ones. Beth Mooney sat in one of the light orange vinyl-covered easy chairs, hands clasped tight in her lap, as the man looked her over.

  “Well,” he said. “We do have a situation here, don’t we?”

  It took her two attempts to find her voice. “Who are you?”

  He was a lean, strong-looking man, with a tanned face that seemed out of place here in New Hampshire in December, and his black hair was carefully close trimmed and flecked with white. If he looked one way, he could be in his thirties; if he looked another way, he could be in his fifties. It depended on how the light hit the fine networks of wrinkles about his eyes and mouth. Beth didn’t know much about men’s clothes, but she knew the dark suit he was wearing hadn’t come off some discount-store rack or from Walmart. He strolled over and sat down across from her, in a couch whose light orange color matched the shade of her chair.

  “I’m Henry Wolfe,” he said, “and I’m on the senator’s staff.”

  “What do you do for him?”

  “I solve problems,” he said. “Day after day, week after week, I solve problems.”

  “My daughter . . .” And then her voice broke. “Please don’t call her a problem.”

  He quickly nodded. “Bad choice of words, Mrs. Mooney. My apologies. Let me rephrase. The senator is an extraordinarily busy man, with an extraordinarily busy schedule. From the moment he gets up to the moment he goes to bed, his life is scheduled in fifteen-minute intervals. My job is to make sure that schedule goes smoothly. Especially now, with the Iowa caucuses coming up and less than two months to go before the New Hampshire primary. In other words, I’m the senator’s bitch.”

  Beth said, “His boy . . .”

  “Currently in custody by the state police, pending an investigation by your state’s attorney general’s office.”

  “I want to see my daughter,” Beth said. “Now.”

  Henry raised a hand. “Absolutely. But Mrs. Mooney, if I may, before we go see your daughter, we need to discuss certain facts and options. It’s going to be hard and it’s going to be unpleasant, but believe me, I know from experience that it’s in the interest of both parties for us to have this discussion now.”

  Anger flared inside her, like a big ember popping out of her woodstove at home. “What’s there to discuss? The senator’s son . . . he . . . he . . . hurt my little girl.”

  She couldn’t help it, the tears flowed, and she fumbled in her purse and took out a wad of tissue, which she dabbed at her eyes and nose. While doing this, she watched the man across from her. He was just sitting there, impassive, his face blank, like some lizard’s or frog’s, and Beth knew in a flash that she was out-gunned. This man before her had traveled the world, knew how to order wine from a menu, wore the best clothes and had gone to the best schools, and was prominent in a campaign to elect a senator from Georgia as the next president of the United States.

  She put the tissue back in her purse. And her? She was under no illusions. A dumpy woman from a small town outside Manchester who had barely graduated from high school and was now leasing a small beauty shop in a strip mall. Her idea of big living was going to the Mohegan Sun casino in Connecticut a few times a year and spending a week every February in Panama City, Florida.

  And Henry was smooth, she saw. When she had stopped sobbing and dabbing at her eyes, he cleared his throat. “If I may, Mrs. Mooney . . . as I said, we have a situation. I’m here to help you make the decisions that are in the best interests of your daughter. Please, may I go on?”

  She just nodded, knowing if she were to speak again, she would start bawling. Henry said, “The senator’s son Clay . . . he’s a troubled young man. He’s been expelled twice before from other colleges. Dartmouth was his third school, and I know that’s where he met your daughter. She’s a very bright young girl, am I correct?”

  Again, just the nod. How to explain to this man the gift and burden that was her only daughter, Janice? Born from a short-lived marriage to a long-haul truck driver named Tom — who eventually divorced her for a Las Vegas waitress and who got himself killed crossing the Continental Divide in a snowstorm, hauling frozen chickens — Janice had always done well in school. No detentions or notes from the principal about her Janice, no. She had studied hard and had gone far, and when Janice came home from Dartmouth to the double-wide, Beth sometimes found it hard to understand just what exactly her girl was talking about with the computers and the internet and twitting or whatever th
ey called it.

  Henry said, “From what I gather, her injuries, while severe . . . are not permanent. And she will recover. Eventually. What I want to offer you is a way to ease that recovery along.”

  Beth said sharply, “Seeing that punk in prison — that’ll help her recovery, I goddamn guarantee it.”

  He tilted his head slightly. “Are you sure, Mrs. Mooney?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Really? Honestly? Or will having Clay in prison help your recovery, not your daughter’s?”

  “You’re talking foolish now.”

  A slight shake of the head. “Perhaps. That’s what happens when you spend so much time with the press, consultants, and campaign workers. You do tend to talk foolish. So let’s get back to basics. From my experience, Mrs. Mooney, there are two avenues open to you. To us. The first is the one I’m sure has the most appeal for you. The attorney general’s office, working with the state police, pursue a criminal indictment against Clay Thomson for a variety of offenses, from assault and battery to . . . any other charges that they can come up with.”

  Beth crossed her legs. “Sounds good to me.”

  “I understand. So what will happen afterward?”

  Beth tried to smile. “The little bastard goes to trial. Gets convicted. Goes to jail. Also sounds good to me.”

  Something chirped in the room. Henry pulled a slim black object from his coat, looked at it, pressed a button, and returned it to his pocket. “That may occur. But plenty of other things will happen, Mrs. Mooney, and I can guarantee that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a media frenzy you’ve never, ever experienced before. I have, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemies, personal or political. Your phone rings constantly, from all the major networks, the cable channels, the newspapers, and the wire services. Reporters and camera crews stake out your home and your hair salon. Your entire life is probed, dissected, and published. Your daughter’s life is also probed, dissected, and published. All in the name of the public’s right to know. If your daughter is active sexually, that will be known. Her school grades, her medical history, information about old boyfriends will all be publicized. If you’ve ever had a criminal complaint — drunk driving, shoplifting, even a speeding ticket — that will also be known around the world.”

  Beth bit her lower lip. “It might just be worth it, to see that little bastard in an orange jumpsuit.”

  “No doubt you feel that way now, Mrs. Mooney,” the man said. “But that will be just the start of it. You see, in a close-fought campaign like this one . . . the opponents of the senator will see you and your daughter as their new best friends, and they’ll try anything and everything to keep this story alive, day after day, week after week, so the senator will stumble in the Iowa caucuses and lose the New Hampshire primary and then the White House.”

  Her hand found another tissue. Henry went on, talking slow and polite, like he was telling her the specials from the deli counter at the local Stop & Shop. “And that’s the senator’s enemies making your life miserable. The senator’s supporters . . . they would be much, much worse.”

  Beth said with surprise, “His supporters? Why would they be worse?”

  Henry spoke again, sounding like a bored schoolteacher talking to an equally bored student. “For more than a year, many of them have been volunteering and donating time and money to the senator. They truly believe — as do I — that he is the best man to be our next president, the man who can bring justice back to this country and to our dealings with the world. But if you and your daughter were to pursue a criminal case concerning the senator’s son . . . there will be threats and accusations against the two of you. Some will say that it was a setup. That you are allied with political groups that are against the senator. That you resent the senator, or your daughter has a grudge against the senator and his family. You’ll be harassed at home, at work, and places in between. People on the internet will publish your home address and telephone number, as well as pictures of you, your house, and your hair salon. And it would go on for months . . . perhaps years.”

  “But that’s not fair!”

  Henry said, “That’s the state of politics today, I’m afraid.”

  Beth pushed the tissue against her lips, keening softly. This night wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was Tuesday night. Grilled hamburger and rice for dinner. Followed by Jeopardy!, the Real Housewives, and to bed. This wasn’t supposed to be a night with an apologetic phone call from the Manchester police followed by a frantic drive to the hospital, and facing all of this . . .

  She took the tissue away. “All right. You said there’s two streets —”

  “Avenues,” he corrected.

  “Avenues,” she repeated, face warm, “available to us. What’s the second one?”

  He said, “One that I, if I were in your place, would find much more attractive. The senator’s son is a very troubled young man. I admit it; the senator admits it. And the senator is devastated at what happened to your daughter. You’re looking for justice, and the senator understands that. What we propose is this: If you and your daughter ask the proper authorities not to file formal and public charges against the senator’s son, we will immediately place Clay in a secure mental-health facility, where he will no longer pose a danger to anyone.”

  “He gets away, then,” Beth said sharply. “And your senator boss doesn’t have to answer embarrassing questions.”

  “The senator isn’t afraid of questions, Mrs. Mooney. And his son, no, he doesn’t get away with anything. He gets the treatment he needs, in a secure place that is quite similar to a prison facility, with locked rooms, few privileges, and lots of discipline and treatment. And while the senator’s son is treated, your daughter will be treated as well. Whatever insurance you have won’t be billed. The senator will take care of it all, for as long as your daughter needs it. The very best in care . . . for life, if necessary, though I believe she’ll make a full recovery in time. All future educational expenses as well. And since you, Mrs. Mooney, would no doubt have to take time off to be with your daughter, the senator is prepared to offer a generous monthly stipend to assist you.”

  “To keep my goddamn mouth shut, you mean.”

  Henry’s face was impassive. “The senator wants to do right by you and your daughter. But by doing this, the senator would expect some . . . consideration from both of you. I’m sure you recognize, Mrs. Mooney, the delicacy of the situation.”

  “All I want is justice for my girl,” she said.

  “And I’m here to make sure justice is done. Among other things.”

  She sat and thought, and then pushed the wad of soaked tissue back into her purse.

  “I want to see my girl, Janice,” Beth said. “It’s going to be up to her.”

  HER DAUGHTER WAS now in a two-patient room, with the curtain drawn to separate her from a young blond girl, who apparently had a broken foot and who was watching the wall-mounted television while chewing gum and texting on her cell phone at the same time. Beth sat down and looked at her Janice, feeling flashes of cold and heat race through her. Tubes ran out of both of Janice’s slim wrists, and there was an oxygen tube beneath her nose. Her face was bruised; her left eye was nearly swollen shut; and her lower lip was split. She looked better than she had when Beth first saw her in the ER; now she was in a hospital gown and her face had been washed.

  Henry walked in and said, “I’ll leave you be for a while,” and then he strolled out.

  She clutched Janice’s hand, and Janice squeezed back. Beth said, keeping her voice soft and low, “Honey, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  And Beth told her what the man from the senator’s staff had said and offered, and when she was done, Beth thought her little girl had fallen asleep. But no, she was thinking, with that mind that was so sharp and bright. She whispered back, “Mom . . . take the deal . . . okay? I’m so tired . . .”

  “Janice, are you sure?”

  Her voice, bare
ly a whisper. “Mom, I’m really tired . . .”

  HENRY CAME IN after a half an hour and Beth said, “We’ll do it. The second . . . whatever it was. Choice. Option.”

  “Avenue,” he said. “Mrs. Mooney, trust me, you won’t regret it. Give me a few minutes and I’ll have the necessary agreements prepared. All right?”

  Beth turned to her girl, who was sleeping. “You know . . . what I’m really thinking . . . I wish I could spend the night here with my little girl. But I know the hospital won’t allow it.”

  “Is that what you want, Mrs. Mooney? To spend the night here, in this room?”

  Beth said, “Yes . . . of course. But there’s no space.”

  Henry said, “Give me a few moments.”

  He slipped out.

  Beth heard voices raised, phones ringing, more voices. Less than ten minutes later, two young, burly hospital attendants came in, and the girl with the broken foot yelped about why she was being moved, what the hell was going on, where was her boyfriend as her personal items were placed in a white plastic bag, and then she and her bed were wheeled out. An empty bed was wheeled in; a grim-faced nurse made it up; and the curtain was pulled back, making the room bigger and wider.

  And Henry had returned and watched it all while typing on his electronic device. When the room was settled, he said, “Is that satisfactory, Mrs. Mooney?”

  “How . . . how in hell did you do that?”

  Henry said, “Problems. I’m paid quite well to solve them.”

  LATER IN THE evening, in a private conference room down the hall from Janice’s hospital room, Beth signed a bunch of papers that she had a hard time puzzling through, but Henry said signing them was just a formality. When she was done, he nodded and smiled for the first time that evening.

  “Very good, Mrs. Mooney. You won’t regret it. I promise. Here —”

  He slid over a business card, which she picked up. On the back was a handwritten phone number. “My private, direct line. You have any questions, any problems, anything at all, give me a call. All right?”