Private Screening

by Richard North Patterson

  Stacy waited a moment. “It’s also my request.”

  Taylor turned to her. “It’s nearly eight,” Rachel interrupted.

  Nodding to Stacy, Taylor rose and led them to his alcove.

  Following, Stacy found herself with Lord. “You didn’t want it televised?” she murmured.

  “God, no.” He gave her a sharp, sudden look. “That was your friend DiPalma.”

  Parnell and Danziger waited in Moore’s office. When Moore switched off the lights, the glow of his television turned the tile a sickly green. Distractedly, Parnell noticed smudges, a scuff.

  “We’ve received a picture,” the anchorman said. Looking up, Parnell saw a blurry hood between Danziger and Moore.

  “Mr. Parnell,” the slurred voice said. “Your charitable donations are an affront to those in need. They expose your politics as self-aggrandizement.

  “The jury and I will help you find a conscience.”

  Parnell moved toward the screen. Please, he thought, just let me see her.

  “Before noon tomorrow, Pacific time, all those requiring your financial help are to call the offices of SNI. From among them, the network will transport the five it thinks most desperate to San Francisco.

  “Directly after Miss Tarrant’s concert, on SNI, they will appear with you to personify the suffering of those crushed by a society which permits you to ignore them. As your jury watches, you will select one among them to receive the donation you now deem appropriate. For your wife’s sake, I hope the jury agrees.”

  The picture changed, and at last he saw Alexis, dressed in black.

  His fear became a sick, humiliated relief. Then her lips opened, closed, opened again. “Colby.” The word was almost spat. “This is how it was for Robert.”

  Danziger turned to look at him. Suddenly Parnell felt helpless, unable to speak or move. He just watched, fighting tears.

  Then Alexis vanished, and he turned from the screen and Danziger.

  Stacy felt Lord move behind her. Almost to himself, he murmured, “It’ll be okay.…”

  The second face grew clearer, a man’s.

  “My God,” Lord said.

  It was Damone.

  As Taylor clutched at a telephone, Stacy’s nails dug into her palms. There was the shadow of a bruise above Damone’s beard, what looked like a scab at his temple. The barrel of a shotgun rested there.

  “Stacy,” he said. “Don’t do it.” Following something off screen, his voice became less steady. “Don’t …”

  Stacy was still, as though moving would endanger him, and then he disappeared.

  Phoenix replaced him. Through his hood and mouthpiece, he said simply, “He has one more day, Miss Tarrant. The choice is yours.”

  The screen went blank. “What a fucking foul-up,” Taylor snapped into the phone. “How are we going to screen all those calls?”

  Instinctively, Stacy turned to Lord. As Rachel watched them, he slowly shook his head.

  “I have to,” Stacy told him.

  Intently, Alexis studied the face in front of her, John Damone’s.

  When the screen went blank, she turned to Phoenix with a haunted look. He saw the question half-forming on her lips.

  Silently, they formed the words, “Where is he?”

  Phoenix placed his index finger to his temple. As if pulling a trigger, he slowly curled it shut.

  Alexis blanched. She could not see him grinning through the hood.

  Day Four: Thursday

  1

  PHOENIX could hear her breathing in the darkness.

  He shut the door behind him. It clicked, softly; the pattern of her breathing changed. As he went to her cot, blankets stirred. He could sense her looking up at him.

  Kneeling, he cracked open the refrigerator near the bed.

  Its thin light startled her. She clutched the blanket to her throat, eyes frightened. He could almost feel her heartbeat.

  Taking a pear from the refrigerator, he held it out.

  She seemed uncomprehending. Finally, watching him, she reached for it.

  As she took one hesitant bite, Phoenix uncovered her legs. She stiffened, staring over the pear. When he touched her ankles, her flesh rose beneath his fingertips.

  His hand was still. Wondering how this felt to her, he imagined Parnell watching them, then forced himself to stop.

  Carefully, Phoenix bound her ankles with a rope.

  Finished, he looked up at her. She took a second bite, as if to keep him there.

  He waited until she was done. Then he stood, placed one palm against her breastbone, and gently pushed her back onto the cot.

  She lay there, waiting. Standing over her, he unlooped the second rope from his belt and held it tight in both hands, inches above her throat.

  Shaking her head, she pressed both wrists together and held them out for him.

  He tied them, staring down at her.

  When he was done, Phoenix shut the refrigerator, and the room was dark again.

  For another moment he stood over the bed, wondering if any part of her wanted him to stay, and why. Wondering if she were grateful to him yet, for living.

  He turned and walked from the room, locking her inside.

  Removing his hood, he shaved in front of his picture of Stacy Tarrant. Then he put on his glasses and broad-brimmed hat.

  Outside, it was not yet light. Starting the van, he drove from memory across the meadow, headlights off. By the time he reached the edge of the ravine, dawn would have come. The morning of her concert.

  Rain began spattering the windshield.

  Lord and Cass sat drinking coffee. It was 7:15, but barely light, and wind from the northwest blew gusts of rain on the window.

  “All right,” Lord said, “you’ve read my notes on Johnny Moore.”

  She nodded. “It’s like he’s making you responsible for one corner of the case. Given what they hope to do, that’s a lot of pressure.”

  “Granted. But on what theory?”

  “That you know or suspect something that may connect Harry to Phoenix, but can’t directly say because of the attorney-client privilege.” She paused. “It has to be the stolen concert money.”

  “Which would make my defense total bullshit.”

  Sipping coffee, Cass watched him over the rim. “Or so they think.”

  “I ruled that out again, about one-thirty last night. The evidence of his anniversary reaction came from too many people to be faked. Plus, it’s too extreme to kill a presidential candidate just to set up a robbery. And Harry swears he didn’t know about that—”

  “He did fabricate a little,” Cass interposed mildly, “about his supposed political motive.”

  “But take the robbery one step further. Harry couldn’t steal the money, and neither could anyone who stayed at the Arena once Kilcannon was shot.” Lord finished his coffee. “Among others, that lets out Damone, his one known friend. So Harry becomes part of a larger conspiracy of which there’s no evidence.”

  “Then what do you think?”

  “That Moore knows or suspects something—maybe concerning the robbery—that he won’t say to me directly because I’m Harry’s lawyer. But I don’t know what it is.”

  “Maybe,” Cass said finally, “he thinks there’s someone out there with a personal vendetta.”

  “The problem is that no one I can think of even knows her, Damone, and both Parnells, let alone hates them all.” Lord gazed at the cover of Time on his desk, Phoenix dangling television inserts of Stacy and Parnell from puppet strings. “No, I think his connection is with the Carson trial. It’s just that he’s such a sadist.”

  Cass raised an eyebrow. “How did she react last night?”

  “She got very quiet.” After seeing Damone, he had driven her to the Mark in silence, with nothing left to do but keep his fears to himself. “I think it sank in that she was really going back to the Arena.”

  “I wonder if she still can sing.” Cass eyed her cup. “Need some coffee?”
r />   “Sure. Thanks.”

  As she went into the outer office, a light flashed on Lord’s telephone. A moment later Cass leaned back in, hurriedly saying, “I think you’d better take this.”

  “Who is it?”

  “He won’t tell me, Tony.” She looked and sounded unnerved. “Except that you’ll want to hear from him.”

  Lord picked up the telephone.

  “Mr. Lord?”

  After a moment, he knew the voice. It was the caller from Carson’s trial.

  “Yes?” he finally answered.

  “She never should have chosen you.” Lord heard a hum, perhaps long distance. “Now if she begins her concert, she will not end it.”

  There was the same soft click.

  Slowly, Lord dialed her number.

  He counted seven rings before a man’s stoned-sounding voice answered, “Yeah?”

  “May I speak to Marcia.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Tony Lord.”

  “Yeah?” Lord imagined him sitting up in bed. “Well, this is Fred, and I don’t think she wants to talk to you, man. Frankly, seeing you on this TV horror show is like a bad dream.…”

  “It wasn’t my idea. Please, this is important.”

  There was an audible breath, to show his listener’s tolerance. “All right, Tony—it’s like this. I’ve been hearing bad reports about you, you know? Like picking Christopher up at day care when you’ve got no right.”

  Lord’s grip tightened. “I’ll take that up with her.”

  “You’re just not getting it, man. Marcia’s vulnerable right now—she feels threatened when you do that—”

  “It’s because I’m a real bastard,” Lord cut in softly, “who’s about to put a stop on her support check. So why don’t you just remove her from the cross, nail by nail, and gently place the telephone to her ear.”

  There was silence. Lord heard a muffled conversation, then Marcia said, “Hello, Tony.”

  “Hi. Sorry to bother you, but I need your help with something.”

  “What is it?”

  “A bad subject, I’m afraid.” Lord hesitated. “That phone call—the night we broke up. Do you remember it?”

  Her tone chilled. “I can’t forget it.”

  “What was the voice like?”

  “This is very painful.” Marcia paused. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I think maybe I just heard from him.”

  There was quiet. “It was very flat,” she said coolly. “Very precise. But soft, almost muffled.”

  “No accent?”

  “No.”

  Lord was quiet for a moment. “Was it the man who threatened you the night I took the case?”

  There was the silence of thought. “That was so long ago, and I hadn’t put them together. I can’t be sure.”

  Lord exhaled. “Okay. Thank you.”

  “You can thank me by being civil to Fred.”

  Pausing, Lord answered quietly, “When Christopher was born, Fred wasn’t what I had in mind for him. I was.”

  “Then you should have been faithful.” Marcia’s voice took on an edge. “Though you always thought Stacy Tarrant was beautiful.”

  “She’s just a client, Marsh.”

  “So you won’t have any divided loyalties, for once.” Her tone softened. “Good-bye, Tony.”

  When Marcia hung up, Lord pressed the telephone button and placed a second call.

  Rain depressed her.

  It always had, even when she was a child and feared nothing but what children fear. She would sit at the window of her parents’ home and imagine it would never stop.

  When she was five, she still remembered, she had formed a plan. Her mattress could float; she and their Doberman would sail away with a box full of marshmallows and dog food. Much later she realized that her fantasies were solitary—those of an only child, she supposed, who sensed the tensions in her parents’ marriage—and that she always overcame some fear or danger.

  Turning from the window, she looked at the messed-up bed.

  She did not know what in the dream most scared her—that she could not stop it, or now was killed at the end. She couldn’t ask John what he thought or felt. She had to sing in eleven hours and didn’t know if she could.

  The telephone rang.

  Her callers were being screened except for Lord and Bill Graham. She answered it.

  “Hi, Stacy.…”

  “Is there something about John?”

  “Nothing, I’m afraid. But I need to see you.”

  “I’m working out a program. Really, I don’t know what I’m doing yet.…”

  “This won’t keep.”

  She hesitated, glancing at the bed. “I’d like to get away from here.”

  He seemed to think. “Then my place is best. It’s ten minutes from both of us, and reporters don’t hang out there once I’ve left.”

  Lord’s apartment seemed furnished with whatever he’d hung on to and a few things he had liked. Entering, Stacy saw a framed Kandinsky poster above a shelf of books which marked when he’d had time to read—Sexual Politics, a biography of Robert Kennedy, The Gulag Archipelago, some Vonnegut. A few stories for children told her that he still read to his son; the school picture beside these was of a blond-haired boy so much like Lord that Stacy surprised herself by smiling.

  “That’s unbelievable,” she said. “All your wife did was to store him.”

  “I’d forgotten you saw her.”

  “Her back, mostly—she was leaving.” Stacy sat next to him. “What’s so urgent?”

  Lord’s gaze was uncertain. “Someone called this morning. To threaten you.”

  Stacy flicked back her bangs; the reflex felt like self-impersonation. “What exactly did he say?”

  “That you wouldn’t finish the concert. Because you’d hired me.”

  She gave an automatic shrug. “It’s no surprise, really. I mean, you get this kind of thing.…”

  “I’ve heard from him before, Stacy. During the trial.”

  “To threaten you?”

  Lord nodded. “He seemed to wait for the worst times. Like before Damone appeared.”

  Stacy looked up. “Then he’s doing it to me now, that’s all.”

  “He also followed me, Stacy.” Lord paused. “The night before you testified, he left a message on my windshield, just to let me know that. On the way home I realized that he could have wired the ignition and they’d be burying me in a bell jar.”

  With exaggerated care, Stacy straightened the folds of her dress. “He didn’t, though.”

  “True. He found another way to hurt me.”

  “How?”

  “It’s personal, and not important. But when he called this morning, I had no choice but to tell you. He knew that.”

  She looked out the window. The rain had become a steady, windless downpour that showed no sign of changing. “Do you think he’s involved with Phoenix?”

  “The clever meanness is the same. But I’m not sure why Phoenix would want to screw up my defense of Carson then or drive you away from me now. Not by threatening you about the concert.”

  Hands folded, she touched them to her chin, turning to him. “But you didn’t want me singing before this, did you!”

  Lord looked away, then back at her. “By demanding that the money you raise go to charity,” he finally answered, “Phoenix doesn’t directly benefit from the concert. But he also gets you from behind your security. That creates some possibilities I can’t ignore.”

  Stacy shook her head. “I’ve already promised him. If I let some crackpot back me off, he says John dies.”

  “I’m not so sure he’s just a crackpot.”

  “I’m scared, all right?” She stood, walking to the bookshelf. “God, I wish I hadn’t said that.”

  Stacy heard him move behind her. “Did you think I’d missed it?”

  “Talking makes it real. And that only makes it harder.” She turned to him. “What do I tell myself if I
don’t go on tonight, and never see John again? Or maybe Alexis?”

  Lord tilted his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Then if you want to help me, Tony, help me do this.” She gave him a tired, ironic smile. “Really, there’ll be no living with me if I don’t.”

  It was four o’clock.

  Lord stood atop the second tier of the Arena, three hundred feet from the stage. Both tiers formed a horseshoe overhanging the floor where five thousand fans would stand. As janitors swept it, amplifiers blasted “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” Their heads looked like dots; the Beatles echoed off concrete; the place felt vast and cold and empty.

  At the end of the horseshoe, where Kilcannon had stood, a crew carried equipment boxes from the loading dock to the stage. Between cuts on the tape, Lord heard their footsteps and metal boxes unlatching.

  After some time, he moved to the exit ramp. The route he chose took him down two flights to the corridor surrounding the floor; Lord followed the right arm of the horseshoe until he’d passed the last entrance. Three police who blocked the remaining corridor nodded him through. Behind them were a series of doors: the ones on Lord’s left concealed stairwells to the stage; the right-hand doors were offices.

  He stopped in front of the last office. The door seemed to have a new lock; the dent beside it was the size of a boot heel.

  Turning, he opened the door across from it and climbed the stairwell to the stage.

  He stopped next to the telephone Carson had used, checking his watch. It was less than four hours to the concert now, and there was no one close enough to hear.

  Quickly, he called Shriver. “I just got back from seeing Harry,” the psychiatrist said. “I’ve been trying to reach you.…”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing. He went into a shell—absolutely refused to talk about it.”

  Pausing, Lord watched the stage. “Do you know why?”

  “Maybe I insulted him.” Shriver sounded weary. “Maybe anything.”

  “Okay, Thanks.”

  “Anyhow, good luck.”

  Lord replaced the telephone.

  In front of him, Curtis Blake directed the crew. Their work was silent, abstracted. Where Kilcannon had fallen, the stain had been scraped off with sandpaper; the wood was now a slightly different color. Curtis stepped around it.