The Proviso

by Moriah Jovan

  She leaned forward so that her mouth brushed his ear.

  “You are alive by the grace of Knox Hilliard, who has requested in good faith that I not kill you,” she whispered conversationally. “If you try to have me killed again, if you attempt to kill Knox at all, if you pull any more stunts like killing any future brides, I’ll consider that a breach of good faith on your part. I should blow your head off for murdering Leah.

  “Consider: I didn’t die in the fire your goons set. I didn’t die when your goons shot me. I’m alive and both of your goons are dead and barbecued—and the prosecutor was happy I did him the favor of cleaning up after him. So instead of being in the ground, I’m here. With you. Your security hasn’t a clue and the only thing keeping me from putting a bullet in your head right now is Knox. Have you learned nothing about me over the last thirty years? Do you really think you can take me on and win?”

  She felt his gulp against her fingertips.

  “I didn’t think so. Good day to you, Fen. Oh, I almost forgot. Mom said to tell you Thanksgiving dinner’ll be at her house this year, two o’clock sharp, as usual.”

  * * * * *

  3: READY-MIXED CONCRETE COMPANY, 1935

  “Bryce, are you okay?”

  Bryce sat in his leather chair looking out over the city. High up in One KC Place, corner office, all glass, he could see for miles—so very apropos for a pit bull of a trial lawyer.

  He pursed his lips as he held his fingers steepled under his chin, feeling more like a teenaged boy with his first crush than a thirty-eight-year-old mover and shaker.

  “I’m fine,” he muttered, answering his assistant’s question without turning. He didn’t mind Arlene’s nosiness. It was nice to have a woman care about him, fuss over him, even if he did pay her to do it. His housekeeper did that, too. Her daily harangues about his need for a wife always made him smile and shake his head. This morning, however, he found no amusement in it whatsoever.

  Lilith.

  He’d spent the last two nights googling that damned painting, studying it, re-reading its history and provenance and myth, comparing it to the woman who’d made him fantasize about things he hadn’t bothered to fantasize about in five years. It was part of the permanent collection in a gallery in England; he knew he had no hope of buying it, but he’d sent an email of inquiry anyway. Just in case. No one had responded.

  Giselle.

  Arlene snorted. “Fine, my ass.” Normally that would’ve pulled a grin out of him. Today . . . no.

  Knox Hilliard’s lover.

  “Here’s your Wall Street Journal. Leah’s all over it.”

  Bryce spun around and snatched it out of her hand, then snapped it open.

  *

  OKHE BRIDE MURDERED, GROOM SUSPECTED

  *

  He skimmed the first couple of paragraphs until his attention caught:

  *

  Fen Hilliard, current CEO of OKH Enterprises, was questioned in the matter of Wincott’s death, but released after several hours. No evidence has been found to connect either Fen Hilliard or Knox Hilliard to her murder, but investigations of both continue in light of Knox Hilliard’s questionable reputation in his community and Fen Hilliard’s apparent motive.

  *

  “I think Knox did it,” Arlene offered.

  Bryce grunted. “He had no reason to,” he murmured, “but Fen sure as hell did.”

  “Fen Hilliard would never do something like that,” Arlene said, low, her voice so full of anger it shocked Bryce. He looked up at her, puzzled. She went on. “Fen Hilliard signs the paychecks of half my family. He rescued OKH when we thought it was going to go under and he saved us. He’s a good man, a generous man.”

  Ah, yes. Kansas City’s knight in shining armor. Fen had taken the rattletrap die cut and metal machining company his brother Oliver, Knox’s father, had built, saved it from failure, and turned it into a billion-dollar success. He’d also married Knox’s mother after a not-so-respectable mourning period, which always made Bryce’s eyebrow rise. The entire metro saw Fen Hilliard as a kind and caring man, and adored him for his generosity to his employees and the community—

  —a modern version of Boss Tom Pendergast, straight out of 1930s Kansas City. Unlike Pendergast, however, Fen didn’t have a monopoly on government concrete contracts, nor could he use the Kansas City police department as his personal errand boys, nor did he have enough political power to put a man in the Senate.

  Bryce did tend to forget that his opinion of the CEO of OKH Enterprises differed greatly from everyone else’s. Bryce shouldn’t have been surprised at Arlene’s vehemence. She idolized Boss Tom, too.

  “And,” she added, “I would think you of all people would know better than to assume someone’s guilty just because everything points in his direction.”

  His eyebrow rose at that, just enough to let her know she’d gone too far. Her mouth tightened and she turned to walk out of his office. He would’ve fired anyone else for saying that, true or not.

  He went back to his paper.

  *

  According to the terms of the proviso Knox Hilliard’s father had secretly approved and slipped into the corporate charter just days before his death, Knox Hilliard’s inheritance of OKH Enterprises is guaranteed so long as he is married and has a child by his 40th birthday.

  When WSJ asked Fen Hilliard what these terms meant for his leadership, he said, “It’s my great pleasure to safeguard my nephew’s inheritance for him. I’m looking forward to the handoff so I can pursue other opportunities and maybe go fishing.”

  There is some concern that Fen Hilliard’s decision to take the company public some years ago has actually made an end run around the proviso, but legal experts who have studied the clause have come to the consensus that Knox Hilliard will be entitled to the majority shares the company holds for itself and will be its de facto CEO at that point, and that his claim would hold up in court if challenged.

  However, if Knox Hilliard does not fulfill the terms of the proviso, Fen Hilliard will remain at its helm indefinitely.

  To complicate matters, Knox Hilliard’s cousin, financier Sebastian Taight, suddenly began to acquire OKHE stock at a steady pace two years ago. Taight is known across the country for his “Fix-or-Raid” protocol with regard to troubled companies that hire his consulting services. What he plans to do with OKH Enterprises, whether Knox Hilliard inherits or not, is unknown and Taight has refused to comment.

  To date, Knox Hilliard’s wedding and announcement of a birth are the most anticipated social events on Wall Street and financial quarters across the country, especially as the deadline, Knox Hilliard’s 40th birthday, looms. If he fulfills the terms of the proviso, his net worth could increase by as much as a half billion dollars.

  *

  Bryce didn’t think Fen should’ve been released so easily from questioning since he had so much to gain from Leah’s death. Lucky bastard. No, not lucky. Scheming, thorough, untouchable.

  Just like Knox.

  Bryce’s lip curled with cynical resentment. Bryce had spent days in interrogation for the murders of his wife and four children because he’d had so much to gain from his wife’s death. He’d been charged and his criminal trial docketed before the fire investigator had come back with the evidence that cleared him.

  No, Knox hadn’t killed Leah; he had everything to lose, but it wouldn’t matter. Every lawyer in town joked that the FBI had been back and forth to the Chouteau County prosecutor’s office so many times, the Missouri Department of Transportation had to repave that section of highway every six months.

  The successor to an already corrupt prosecutor’s office and blatantly continuing the tradition, Knox lived under the FBI’s microscope. Despite that, he had a reputation as the best prosecutor in the ten major counties that made up the Kansas City metro area. His true talent, though, lay in turning baby lawyers into courtroom lions; his name on an attorney’s CV guaranteed a stellar career path. Under Knox’s leadership, the C
houteau County prosecutor’s office had evolved into a residency program for litigators whose tales of corruption and dirty money had yet to be substantiated by the feds.

  Knox Hilliard: Suspect Number One for his bride’s death on the basis of his reputation alone, which preceded him all the way to Washington.

  In a sidebar:

  *

  Yesterday, OKHE stock price plummeted in the wake of another of Sebastian Taight’s mass buys. The SEC is expected to disallow any more buys by Taight if he does not account for his voting record as a majority shareholder. In addition, there are some murmurings on Capitol Hill about the legitimacy and legality of Taight’s raids.

  Senator Roger Oth (R-Penn.), Taight’s most vocal opponent, said today, “He and businessmen like him need to be brought to heel by someone with some power. As far as I can see, Congress is the only entity with that kind of power.” Before being elected to office, Senator Oth was the CEO of Jep Industries, a company Taight dismantled after having been hired to restructure and streamline its operations. Taight would give no reason for his decision to break Jep Industries.

  *

  And Sebastian Taight was the monkey wrench in the power play between OKH’s current CEO and its heir. Venture capitalist Taight had his fingers in so many pies, nobody could keep track of them all; he even speculated heavily in art. Wall Street had given up trying to figure him out years ago. Though scrupulously honest, he had a reputation for taking any leverage where he could get it, being completely ruthless about it, and remaining silent to the press. The drumbeats on Capitol Hill calling for Taight’s head got a little louder every time he thumbed his nose at the SEC, every time he refused to explain his Fix-or-Raid policy. His aggressive takeover of OKH had sharply increased the Senate’s interest in hauling him before a panel hearing.

  Taight had the power to crush both Fen and Knox Hilliard and to all appearances, he had begun the process. Until the night of Leah’s visitation, Bryce, along with the rest of the financial industry, had assumed Taight to be on the warpath with both Hilliards, but now . . .

  Before Lilith—Giselle—had caught his eye, Bryce had observed Taight shouldering up with Knox, giving him support, not leaving him to face the cream of society (Bryce couldn’t really call them mourners) alone. The men were cousins, but they acted more like brothers. No, Taight wasn’t at war with Knox, which only left the question of why he wanted OKH so badly he was willing to destroy it to get it away from both Fen and Knox—and why Knox treated him like a brother anyway.

  Fen Hilliard, Sebastian Taight, and Knox Hilliard, three of the most brilliant men in the Midwest, were a family very publicly at war. Whatever else had gone wrong in that family, their collective genius couldn’t be dismissed.

  Bryce’s email dinged and he glanced at it to see if it required immediate attention. The art gallery that had Lilith. His eyes widened and he clicked on the subject line.

  *

  Subject: Lilith

  Dear Mr. Kenard,

  Thank you for your inquiry regarding Lilith by the Hon. John Collier. We regret to inform you that the painting is not for sale. Please let us know if there is anything else we may be able to help you with.

  M. Stevens,

  Curator

  *

  Though Bryce knew he wouldn’t have been able to have it at any price, disappointment still struck him behind his breastbone. He went to a website he’d bookmarked and pulled up Lilith. As he stared at it, he wondered what it would take to possess the real one, the one in the little black dress who answered to the name of Giselle.

  * * * * *

  4: NO STATIC AT ALL

  OCTOBER 2004

  Justice bounced along the rutted driveway toward the farmhouse, her old car’s struts unable to absorb the shocks. Truly, she didn’t know how much longer it could take the eighty-four-mile round-trip commute from River Glen to the University of Missouri at Kansas City three days a week. If she believed in a God at all, she’d be on her knees the other four days begging for its longevity, at least for the six semesters until she graduated from law school. With any luck, she’d continue to be able to arrange her schedule as well as she had this semester—

  —even if that meant she wouldn’t have Professor Hilliard, who, she had learned, taught Tuesday and Thursday classes almost exclusively if he taught at all. She needed those two days during the week to work, to the point that it might be non-negotiable.

  Once she had parked in her usual spot, she sat for a moment, taking in her lifelong home as if she had never seen it before, compared and contrasted it to the fine old neighborhoods surrounding UMKC. Then there were the relatively new subdivisions south of KCI airport along I-29 at the northern edges of Kansas City . . . fine new houses of the type she would never live in.

  She sighed.

  The dilapidated farmhouse, indistinguishable from any other plain white-clapboard-clad gothic farmhouse across the Midwest, listed on one corner. That could never be repaired without shoring up the foundation and she couldn’t possibly hope to raise that kind of money. The yard was barren, packed dirt bisected by a poorly maintained gravel drive; her father used it to park worn out and rusting farm machinery.

  The corrugated steel barn to the east of the house displayed a lace of rust, the animals it occasionally housed their only real income.

  The wheat fields would give a poor crop; Justice had wanted to plant corn, as she suspected a good yield could be sold to an oil company for ethanol, but her father had dismissed her idea. Those fields were worn out—and the wheat proved it—but her father also wouldn’t hear of letting her turn the cattle out into them. Certainly, it would be more economical to let them eat the wheat than pay for harvesting.

  Very good, Justice.

  She bit her lip, looked at the ragged wheat, then to the south where the cattle grazed, then back to the wheat and made an executive decision. She flipped open her cell phone and called a neighbor, explained what she wanted to do, and arranged to swap chores. She would mow his fields if he would combine and bale hers. Her father would have to live with it, though she knew she’d have to tread lightly and present him with a fait accompli.

  That done, she mentally went over the list of other things she had to do this afternoon and evening, then sighed, seeing her future in the past that lay before her in all its pathetic glory. Hopefully, she could bring it back a little once she graduated from law school and had a regular income.

  Justice got out of her car and walked into the house, hearing the familiar squeaks in the bare floorboards beneath her feet on the way to the kitchen. Despite what her father thought, it had not been foolish to spend so much money on the appliances that took up most of the otherwise primitive kitchen: a used Viking with six star burners, two ovens, and a warming drawer; an older Sub-Zero double refrigerator; and two fairly new freezers.

  Her father’s anger had more to do with what she hadn’t bought than what she had, even though his complaints subsided when she demonstrated how fast they had paid for themselves. Still, he didn’t really know how much she made because she spent it as fast as she got it: tuition, books, cell phone, aircard, gas, car insurance and repairs. The beef sales funded the farm, but her meal delivery business funded her education.

  She had very little left over and she couldn’t afford debt she wouldn’t be able to repay on a junior assistant prosecutor’s salary, much less as a defense attorney if she were forced to it. If she could get through law school without having to take out student loans, she would be very proud of herself.

  No one else would be.

  She filled a large pot with water and set it to boil, then turned on her mother’s old tape deck; the silence got to her and she battled it with the music she’d found in the attic, cassette tapes her mother had stashed away before she died. It was in those boxes Justice had found the music of her heart: Rush. Nugent. U2.

  And the music of her memories of her mother: Earth Wind & Fire, Carole King, Doobie Brothers.

&n
bsp; She pressed play and heard Bette Midler’s voice.

  *

  “Some say love . . . ”

  Justice hid in the endless shadows of the barn listening to her mother sing a cappella while she milked cow number two. Justice would have helped her, but she would stop singing if she knew anyone listened and oh, Justice did so love to hear her mother sing.

  She had never heard this song before, which she deduced from the lyrics must be called “The Rose.” She bit her lip at the words, suddenly feeling a sadness emanating from her mother in a thick wave. Where had it come from? Her mother was never sad; always light, always smiling, Justice’s mother was the prettiest woman Justice had ever seen.

  Suddenly she stopped singing and murmured, “Where is that girl? It’s gone five.”

  “Here, Mama,” Justice said, stepping into the barn proper, as though she had just come from the house. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  A smile, quick and warm, lit her face. “Good morning, Iustitia. Will you turn on the radio, please?”

  She didn’t want the radio. She wanted whatever was in the tape player, which happened to be Hall & Oates.

  “Thank you, baby. Cows three and four need to be milked yet.”

  Libby McKinley didn’t see any reason to name any animal that provided food, money, or clothes. The dogs had names because Justice’s father had insisted, but the barn cats didn’t. The only animal Justice had been allowed to name was her own cat, Pontificate. She hadn’t known what that word meant at the time, but thought it a neat word when she’d heard her mother say it to her father.