by Sydney Bauer
Du Bois moved inside and looked towards the front of the marquee, happy to feel her heart flicker yet again with the precision of it all. She had been determined that the marquee be specially constructed so that it would link with the folding doors at the side of the Haynes’ ballroom. By placing the mini-orchestra at this key area of transition, she had created a seamless link between inside and out.
The ballroom itself was an extension of the marquee and contained thirty-four round tables, each set for ten. Every table was covered in a crisp, white tablecloth with the silver flatware arranged neatly for four courses. The name cards were centred perfectly between the crystal champagne flutes and the red and white wine glasses placed in front of each setting. The centrepieces were simple, consisting of fresh white orchids in crystal vases, whilst the napkins gave the tables their colour – one table all blue, the next all red.
But of course, the focus of the room was the main table – one long, bench-style arrangement where the guest of honour and his wife would take centre stage. The napkins on this table were white with each of the ten places having a single crystal vase in front of it, carrying one orchid and one miniature American flag. Behind the table hung a royal blue curtain and behind where the Senator and Mrs Haynes would sit, a banner of the Stars and Stripes and the Republican Party insignia.
In short, she had done an amazing job. It was a setting fit for a king and his queen and tonight, she noticed, they certainly looked the part.
Haynes’ grey hair was combed back but to the side – alleviating that sometimes cold look men took on when they combed their hair back ‘Gordon Gekko’ style. He wore the traditional black dinner suit which shone with quality rather than age. His white shirt was starched to perfection, his black bowtie in the neatest of knots.
As for his wife, she was, as expected, looking absolutely stunning. Her hair was pulled back in a low chignon which was set off with tiny white flowers woven in and out of her tresses with indiscriminate order. Her dress was also white – a scoop neck, fitted to the waist and then falling in a simple A-line skirt which, as it descended, contained a falling flow of white embroidered flowers matching those in her hair. Her shoes were of the same white silk – the toes of which peeked from beneath her skirt to reveal similar white embroidery but in a finer, more subtle pattern, making the ensemble complete. She wore simple pearl earrings and a matching pendant around her neck and, even at her age, shone far and beyond every other woman in the room.
‘They look spectacular, don’t they?’ said Du Bois to a passing corporate chief’s wife. And they did. The perfect combination of power and grace, strength and beauty, accomplishment and elegance. ‘She is like a queen who will always be a princess,’ she added, capturing the regality of the moment. ‘And he like a prince who was born to be king.’
Vincent Verne stretched his left thigh a fraction of an inch and lifted his right shoulder a little higher before settling into position. He could not have been more fortunate. Delia Bank’s multi-million dollar home backed onto the Brookline Reservoir, a large parkland reserve filled with picnickers and joggers during the day, and largely deserted at night. He was well hidden, with a perfect view of their five-bedroom Colonial which sat at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac.
He could see him now – Tyrone Banks’ face framed in the viewfinder of his SIG – P-210 (M49) – 69mm target self-loading pistol. It was a beautiful weapon, a short recoil pistol with an innovative and rarely seen feature – a slide that ran along the inside of the frame, rather than the outside, which gave the bullet excellent support and contributed to its pin-point accuracy.
Verne had used a cheaper, lighter variation of the P-210, the P-225, when he was in the secret service and now remembered how much he had enjoyed the training. There was something about looking through the viewfinder, admiring the way such a delicate weapon could create works of art – perfect portraits – in their tiny focus frames.
That thought aside, Vince was not entirely comfortable with tonight’s orders. They were extreme to say the least, and delivered in such an unusual fashion. They were however, just that – orders – and as always he would carry them out with speed and efficiency.
He allowed his right elbow to relax and took a deep, slow breath before surveying the rest of the house’s inhabitants. Three in total. Then, he looked through the viewfinder again, found his target, held his breath, squeezed the trigger and fired. The bullet entered the victim’s forehead before they even knew what hit them. The silencer so efficient, the other two went about their business without even realising one of their family was hit.
It would be some minutes before the discovery was made, and in that time the victim’s breath would shrink below shallow and their heart would slow towards its final beat. And by that time Vince Verne would be long gone.
‘Wow. You look amazing.’
‘Well,’ said Sara. ‘Just be grateful my flatmate works at Calvin Klein and not Walmart.’
David admired the long black fitted gown, cut low in the front, even lower in the back with the bodice beaded in a shower of small blue-black glass drops. Her hair was down, dried perfectly straight, with small dark sapphire earrings and necklace offsetting the light but luminous makeup on her face. On her feet were simple black-strapped shoes, made of the same material as the dress. Cindy had certainly come through with the goods.
‘Too much?’ asked Sara.
‘Well, if our aim is to not draw attention I think we are out of luck.’ He smiled when he said this letting her know it was a compliment rather than a strategic concern.
‘There is no way I am giving these back by the way,’ she said, pointing at her shoes.
‘I should think not,’ he said, taking her elbow to lead her to the car. ‘Just don’t lose one at the ball, Cinderella. Something tells me our host is no Prince Charming.’
‘Agreed,’ she said smiling at him, before breaking their fairytale with mention of the harsh reality at hand. ‘What time is it?’
‘Almost nine. We’ll hang about a little because we can’t walk in during dinner. We only have a small window of opportunity before someone recognises us. When that happens, we have to leave fast before causing a scene. It’s better that we arrive late, after everyone has had their chance to eat, drink . . .’
‘And drink some more,’ she said.
‘It will take us half an hour or so to get there.’
‘So let’s go,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid if we wait any longer we’ll realise how insane we are and change our minds.’
‘Okay,’ he said as he started the engine. ‘Let’s do it.’
It was a major embarrassment, but it was averted quickly and with minimum fuss. Chairs were shuffled and seating cards rearranged with speed and discretion. Moses and Sophia Novelli had failed to show.
Haynes could not believe it. Sure Moses had had his little tantrum but he always followed Clark – always – and this was seriously out of character. Still, no time to dwell on it now. Time for that later. Novelli would know there would be reprisals – hell, he would be expecting them. But tonight, Haynes realised, their absence may even play to his advantage.
Haynes had swapped Novelli’s right-hand seat with that of Governor Elliot Frank from New Hampshire. Frank was as right wing as they came and as black as the ace of spades. His wife was even blacker – so black in fact that her choice of fitted dark chocolate gown gave the illusion of her wearing nothing at all – which wasn’t such a bad thing considering Talia Frank was Elliot’s third wife and young enough to be his daughter. Sitting next to Elizabeth the two women looked like a politically correct Benetton commercial. Tomorrow’s front page would show photos of the main table with the Haynes framed by two of the darkest people in the room. Hell, it was brilliant, he should have thought of it sooner.
He turned to shake the hand of a pepper-haired senator from Kentucky and absorbed the awe and power of the room around him. It felt good. He was indeed Clark Kent. Superman in disguise. America’s h
ero.
After dinner the beautiful people started to rise from their seats and mingle once again. The speeches had gone well with various Party notables paying tribute, sharing appropriate anecdotes and raising their glasses to the man of honour. There were video messages from past presidents, telegrams from others and finally, the presentation of a gold plaque for fifty years of dedicated service to the Republican Party and the American people.
David and Sara entered through the back of the marquee at just after 9.30. Sara immediately noticed the stares, as did David. But he was relieved (if not a little put out) to realise the men in the room were staring at Sara because she was breathtaking, and not because of who they were.
‘Maybe you should . . . um.’
‘It’s okay, David. I’ll put my wrap on.’
‘I didn’t mean to . . .’
‘Yes, you did,’ she smiled. ‘Never thought you’d turn out to be such a prude.’
‘I’m not, I was just trying to avoid unnecessary attention.’
‘Right.’
They decided to split up, figuring they would be less noticeable as individuals. But after half an hour of listening to various conversations and asking a few discreet questions, they came up with the same conclusion – these people belonged to Haynes. Even if they suspected impropriety they kept their opinions to themselves out of respect, loyalty or fear.
‘We have to work quickly,’ said David, pulling Sara behind a hanging curtain beyond the bar. ‘I am sure some people recognise us, but aren’t too sure what to do about it. It won’t take them long to raise the alarm.’
‘You’re right. I’m sure I saw a few people point and whisper. If we get caught . . . if this goes public, we are in some serious trouble, and I’m not just talking about the hiding we’ll get from Arthur and Joe. Maybe this was a mistake.’
‘I know. You’re right, we’ll get going asap. I’m coming up empty in any case. How about you?’
‘Ditto. Except . . .’ Sara paused, as if trying to make sense of the information she had gathered.
‘What is it?’
‘Well there seems to be some undercurrent of gossip about the guest list.’
‘Who’s here?’ asked David, hoping she might have discovered a lead.
‘Not who is here, who isn’t.’ She lowered her voice. ‘As in Mayor Novelli. I get the feeling he was a late no-show, meant to be on the main table.’
‘That would make sense. Novelli and Haynes go way back, but I would imagine that these days their views on life are a little out of whack.’
‘From what I hear, Novelli is the genuine article,’ said Sara.
‘Exactly. Worth checking out. What time is it?’
Sara looked at her watch.
‘Almost ten.’
‘Okay. You leave first. Just head back the way we came in. I’ll see if there’s a side way to the front of the house and meet you at the car. If anyone stops you, just say . . .’
David was interrupted by the ring of his cell. ‘Hold on,’ he said to Sara before picking up the call.
‘Hello.’
‘David. It’s Joe.’
‘Joe. What is it?’
‘I thought you’d want to know straightaway.’
‘Know what?’
‘I’m about to head out to Mass General. You can meet me there.’
‘Joe, what is it?’
‘It’s Teesha Martin. She was shot through the head approximately one hour ago. And David, from what I’m hearing, it doesn’t look good.’
Haynes was shaking the hand of the slightly tipsy, and far too clingy, Governor’s wife when he saw Verne standing at the edge of the marquee just near the entrance to the ballroom. What the hell? He had been told to stay low, keep out of sight.
The Senator excused himself and walked through the ballroom, around the waiters still clearing tables and gathering those napkins. Once at the marquee, he moved swiftly behind the orchestra, through a flap in the tent wall and out into the night air.
Careful to avoid the lights, he chose a slightly longer route down the right-hand side of his garden towards a set of sandstone stairs which descended to the back of the tennis courts. He could see him there, his shadow an odd twist of colour under the green lights beyond the change room doors and felt himself getting angrier by the minute. It was not like Verne to defy an order, in fact he had never done so before.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ asked Haynes.
‘I’m sorry, Sir. I just thought you would like confirmation that it was done.’
This was a lie. Verne was not here to give confirmation of his deed, he was here because his conscience had driven him. He wanted to check that he heard the order correctly, that he had done the right thing. Because for the first time, this order felt . . .
‘Confirmation? My instructions were clear,’ said Haynes. ‘What the hell are you talking about, Vincent?’
No, he couldn’t be, thought Mannix.
‘David,’ he said, starting to panic. ‘David, where are you?’
Mannix could hear music in the background – beyond David’s voice. It was orchestra music, they were playing Glenn Miller. He could hear the same tune himself, playing out the back in the marquee – ‘In the Mood’, that was it.
David was here. He was at the banquet.
Shit!
David hung up before Mannix could say anymore. He pocketed the phone and looked around the room. Haynes was gone.
‘What is it?’ said Sara, reading the shock, the anger in his face. ‘Tell me. What is it?’
‘Sara, I need you to go out front and get the valet to call you a cab. Then I want you to go home, get changed and I’ll pick you up in half an hour.’
‘No way! David, I thought we agreed, no more secrets.’
‘I know, I’ll tell you everything but for now I am asking you to trust me. There is no time. Please, just go.’
Haynes heard movement and looked up to see two men moving quickly towards the tennis courts – one coming down the sandstone stairs, the other down the pebbled pathway that led from the main house. Their shadows threw odd images in opposite directions, like two drifting ghosts set on a catastrophic course of confrontation.
‘Impossible,’ said Haynes, squinting into the night. ‘I don’t believe it. He’s here. It’s Cavanaugh. My God.’
He turned towards Cavanaugh who was now entering the back gate of the court, and then back towards Verne.
‘Leave. Go now,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t want him to see you. You need to stay away, far away, until it is safe for me to contact you.’
Haynes could see Verne was torn. Should he go, or stay to defend his mentor.
‘Mr Cavanaugh,’ called Haynes. ‘This is a low move, even for you. Enjoy your last minutes of freedom because you are about to be arrested for trespassing. Better still,’ Haynes felt the blood rush to his head. ‘Allow me to remove you myself.’
Cavanaugh moved quickly, so fast in fact that Haynes, he had to admit, felt a cold streak of fear steal into his brain and run down his spine like liquid silver. Cavanaugh was running now, and Haynes took an instinctive step backwards before regaining his composure and standing his ground. Just then, Cavanaugh was hit hard from the side. Crash-tackled to the ground by the second man. Haynes heard a crack on impact and suspected the brazen attorney had just fractured a rib.
The next thing Haynes felt was a powerful pull from behind as Verne’s training kicked in, grabbing his superior and dragging him back and out of harm’s way.
‘For Christ’s sake, Vincent,’ said Haynes recognising Mannix. ‘It’s all right. It’s the police. Just go,’ he said. ‘Go now.’
Verne rose and ran, just as Mannix managed to contain David in a tight grip.
‘Lieutenant Mannix, how nice of you to join us,’ said Haynes, straightening his jacket and managing a smile at the two so-called comrades writhing on the tennis court before him.
Joe pulled a struggling David to his feet, before Dav
id, still obviously boiling with fury, turned into Joe and in all the chaos pulled back his arm, ready to strike his friend in order to get free.
‘David,’ said Joe, low enough for the Senator not to hear. ‘Not now. Don’t screw this up. Think of Rayna, of Teesha.’
David tensed and took a deep breath. He shook loose of Mannix’s hold and wiped a streak of blood from his forehead, nodding at Mannix before turning to face Haynes. They stood there like that for a moment, saying nothing and everything, the steam from their breath forming muted green halos around their heads. Then, David moved slowly forward and leant towards the tall man who looked for all the world like a tower of strength but smelt of the sickly stench of fear.
‘Remember this Senator, I am not afraid of you.’ David leant closer so that Haynes could feel the warmth of his words against his ear. ‘I promise you one thing. You will go down for this. You will fall so hard and fast that all this,’ David gestured back towards Haynes’ grand house, ‘will be a distant memory.’ He pressed his clenched fist against the Senator’s chest before going on.
‘It is time for you to feel the fear, you heartless murdering bastard. I will make you pay, if it is the last thing I do.’
37
Teesha Martin was in a coma. The 69 calibre hollow point bullet had entered her brain just over her left eye. From there it had passed through the left cerebral hemisphere, the small section known as Broca’s area and on through the motor cortex and the primary somatic sensory cortex before exiting at the top of the parietal lobe and out the back of her skull.
‘The left side of the brain typically controls the right side of the body and vice versa,’ Professor Gad Kainer explained to a shaken Rayna who had been granted special permission to visit her daughter at Massachusetts General IC Unit. ‘That’s why the language control centre for most right-handed people operates from the left side of the brain. Is Teesha right or left handed?’
