by Davis Bunn
“She’s laid up. I’m in charge. And yes, security personnel would be good, so long as they can start immediately. But I’m thinking about something more, well, informal.”
“That word covers a lot of ground.”
“It does.”
Dexter Wise took his time rising to his feet. “Why don’t you and I take us a little drive.”
They took Dexter’s pickup out through the whitewashed gates. John rolled down his window and sat with his face in the wind as they took the highway south. They skirted Bedford and followed the rough city traffic until the sign came up for White Plains. Dexter spoke for the first time since setting off. “Got me a church down this way.”
They skirted the downtown hospital and entered a district Dexter called Mamaroneck. They passed a ratty park and entered a blue-collar district that might have once seen better days, or could possibly have started rough and sunk from there. The church was sandwiched between a homeless shelter and a VFW building. A number of motorcycles were parked on the sidewalk out front. John followed Dexter into the run-down veterans’ building and knew he had asked the right man for help.
They walked a scuffed linoleum-clad corridor and entered a hall about half filled. Most of the attendees wore a combination of denim and leather and body jewelry and fingerless gloves and hard-edged gazes. Dexter bumped fists with several as he approached the empty podium. “I know you haven’t started, but that’s okay, because I’m not supposed to be here right now. But many of you know Miss Ruth, or you should, since she helps finance this program.” Dexter stepped to one side and motioned John forward. “This is a friend.”
Only about half the people were seated. The others stood with the stony patience of people who had been fed various lines for years. John met their gazes as he said, “My name is John Jacobs. I’m serving as temporary spokesman for the group that’s come together up at the Barrett headquarters.”
“You’re that guy on TV.” The woman was as hard as she was large, with a voice to match. She said to her neighbor. “I listened to him the other night. He’s good.”
The man next to her asked him, “You done time, right?”
“Some. A long ways back. I’ve stayed clean for over thirty years. But that’s not—”
“What were you in for?”
“Aggravated assault.” John put up with it because he had no choice. “I was nineteen and as drunk as I was dumb.” He waited through sympathetic laughter. “Let’s get back to today. We’ve become the target of some powerful people. I need roving teams in place to make sure they don’t try and bring the trouble home. Ruth’s not well, and—”
“What’s the trouble with Ruth?”
“Heart.” This from Dexter. “Let the man finish.”
John went on. “I’ve got nothing to go on but what they’ve done so far, which is hide in the shadows and snipe at everybody in reach. But my gut tells me they’re going to come in, and when they do, I want to be ready. You in?”
The chuckles and nods told him what he needed to know.
28
“… how you ought to regard us …”
LOS ANGELES
Trent and the LA team worked through the evening and into the night. Sometime after ten, Gayle caught wind of what Trent and Dermott were planning. How precisely she became aware of their intentions, Trent had no idea. But by the time they left for the airport just after midnight, she carried herself with a quiet fury. On the drive to the airport, she twice tried to convince him not to do what he intended. When he refused to even discuss the plans he and Dermott had put into motion, she grew frigid with rage. Locking him out. Tightly.
The plane was being refueled, so they settled into the elegant lobby dedicated to private flights. Gayle sat on a sofa and placed her carryall next to her, blocking him out. He seated himself in the chair to her right, where he could study her. Her expression was as cold as marble and as beautiful as a Renaissance statue. Even when she was angry, she remained the loveliest woman he had ever known. He was still trying to find some way of reconnecting when his phone rang. He checked the readout, but the number was blocked. “Trent here.”
“It’s Edlyn.”
It was the first time Mundrose’s daughter had ever called him directly. “Just a minute, Edlyn.” Speaking her name jolted Gayle, as did his putting the phone on speaker and setting it on the table between them. “All right, go ahead. You’re on speaker.”
“Can anyone else hear us?”
“Just Gayle. It’s after one in the morning. We have the terminal to ourselves.”
“Dermott phoned. He felt I should know about your plans. I’m calling to give you the green light.”
Gayle went so pale she looked stricken. Trent said to her as much as Edlyn, “I really feel this could be important.”
“I agree.”
He leaned in, trying to meet Gayle’s gaze, but she remained focused on some internal point. “Did you speak with Barry?”
Edlyn took her time responding. “On matters like this, you don’t need to ask. Ever.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. You’re new. When do you want this to go down?”
“The sooner the better. If Dermott can supply me with the right contacts.”
“He’s never failed us yet. So tonight, then.”
Trent felt the heady flames of danger rise in his gut. “Tonight would be perfect.”
Gayle mouthed the word perfect. But she did not speak.
Edlyn continued. “Our music division’s premier band is launching a new album tomorrow. Barry is throwing a party. I want you to come. It’s time you met some people.”
For the first time during that long and wearying day, Trent was focused beyond the next task, the next hour, the need to take down his foe. Her words rang through his body like a gong.
“Trent?”
“I’d be honored.”
“Good. Their cover art is based on your theme. We’ve shifted the song we’re going to launch as their first single to the one closest to your message.”
His theme. His message. “Thank you, Edlyn. So much.”
Edlyn cut the connection with typical abruptness. He had no idea whether she even heard his final words. Trent studied the woman seated across from him. He wanted to ask Gayle to come with him. But her attention remained focused on what only she could see, her features taut with the argument he refused to have with her. There was nothing to be said. He was not budging. So he remained silent.
WESTCHESTER COUNTY
The next morning John sat in the windowless dressing chamber off the main studio. The room was scarcely larger than a walk-in closet, wooden lockers on one side, and a large mirror with a white shelf littered with brushes and cosmetics and cotton pads and tissues on the other. A stack of well-worn Bibles rested on a narrow corner table. John wore one of Bobby Barrett’s suits. He still had the makeup napkin tucked around his collar, and the brilliant lighting showed a point on his cheek where the powder had caked. He sat motionless, staring at his reflection.
He searched for any hint of what he felt going on inside. But all he saw was the same craggy strength, the same determined cut to his jaw. His shoulders still bunched the fabric of his jacket. His eyes were clear and green and held a hint of old pain. His hair was almost all grey now, the color of wet steel. He wanted to ask God for another sign. But there was a hint of dishonesty to the act, as though it should have been enough that Ruth had told him to go and do this thing. Not to mention how the others seemed to accept his new role. So he kept his prayers unspoken, and when the knock on the door announced it was time, he stowed away his fluttering nerves and marched through the door.
Alisha and Heather, the two who had accompanied him over this morning, both embraced him. The black woman smelled slightly spicy, and her hug was powerful enough to insert a new sense of strength to his legs and his resolve. John smiled his thanks, then embraced his wife and walked past the people and entered the lights.
Kev
in had stationed a monitor screen to the left of the camera. He waited while the sound technician hooked him up, then—counted him down and pointed to the monitor, which now showed the announcer. The female newscaster was the same woman who had interviewed him before. She might be on the Gospel Channel, but her on-air persona held the same brisk professionalism as the faces on the major networks. “Good morning, John. Thank you for joining us today.”
“Appreciate the invite.”
“Could we start by asking what developments have occurred recently?”
As John gave a quick recap, he found his words hardening into terse bites, the way he dealt with truckers in a crisis. Snow on the highway, blocked roads, late deliveries, engine failure, whatever. Many truckers liked to chatter when they grew nervous. John’s job was to keep them focused, press them to move faster and push harder than they might like. He tried hard not to say such things outright, because the next step was to threaten. And he hated threats of any kind. So he punched with his voice, even when he spoke softly. Like now.
When he finished, the newscaster said, “Do I understand that all of you have either lost your jobs or have your positions threatened in some way?”
“Yes.”
“And your son’s business is faced with bankruptcy?”
“Correct.”
“You’ve had power outages, your access roads blocked, your phone service cut off. Do you blame the Mundrose Group for these attacks?”
“They haven’t said. So neither can I. But it’s hard to put all this down to coincidence.”
“We’ve been flooded with emails and phone calls all day. Our viewers ask one thing above all else. What can they do to help?”
“They sure can pray.”
“I assure you, John, they are already doing that.”
“Not for us,” John said. “I mean for the Mundrose people.”
The newscaster’s aplomb slipped. “I’m sorry. What?”
“We are called to pray for our adversaries. I have no idea whether their attacks are over. But the truth is, we’re doing our best to follow God’s will. How can we expect not to be brought into conflict with this world?”
“But—what about your jobs? What about your son?”
He felt the burning fury carve its way through his entire being. The helplessness gnawed at him as it had for forty years. But John simply waited it out. When he was certain his words would not be dominated by the old pain and the new worry, he replied, “Of course I’m concerned. But none of this changes what we’re called to do. Which is, look beyond where we are and search out God’s will. That’s why I’m asking your audience to pray for everyone involved in the Mundrose campaign. Pray for a change of heart. For a willingness to make room for God’s love and wisdom.”
The woman’s gaze opened slightly. The careful on-air demeanor, like enamel developed over years, was temporarily erased. “John, I personally commit to doing this on a daily basis.” She turned back to the viewers. “I believe you will too.”
29
“… for the time will come …”
LOS ANGELES TO WESTCHESTER COUNTY
The plane began its journey across three time zones, robbing Trent of his morning. He fell asleep and woke to discover Gayle sleeping across the aisle. He glanced at his watch, but he could not make sense of the hour. He couldn’t remember whether he had set it forward to East Coast time. He was still exhausted, and yet he felt the same drumbeat of tension and excitement that had filled most waking hours since originally entering the Mundrose boardroom. Trent swung his feet onto the carpet, rubbed his face, then looked down at Gayle.
The jet’s seats folded down to form well-padded beds. She had pulled one of the blankets over her, so all he could see was her stockinged feet and her face. Her face was relaxed in a childlike pose, her lower lip slightly extended, as though a dream was causing her to pout. Or perhaps it was their unspoken argument that made her wistful. He watched one hand emerge from the coverlet and stroke away a strand of hair from her face. His heart was filled with a restless hunger. He wanted to reach out, slip his arms around her, tell her…
The jet jolted slightly. Trent saw her eyelids flutter, and he jerked his face away, as though he had almost been caught doing something wrong. The shuddering plane forced him to grip the seat backs as he made his way aft. He entered the lavatory, washed his face, tucked in his shirt, combed his hair, and told himself to get a grip.
Gayle rose from her seat as he settled back into his. The turbulence worsened as the plane descended into a gloomy murk. When she returned, her face looked pale enough for him to ask, “Doing all right?”
She seemed uncertain how to respond. The pilot stepped through the cockpit door and announced, “The weather has shifted unexpectedly, folks. Rain’s set in. We’re getting word of some severe updrafts. You’ll need to buckle up for our arrival.”
Gayle stammered out, “Is—is everything all right?”
“Oh, sure.” But his smile seemed forced to Trent. “Just be ready for a few bumps before we land in Yonkers.”
He was gone so swiftly, Gayle directed her question to Trent. “We’re landing in Yonkers?”
“I need to—” And a fist gripped their plane.
That was how it seemed to Trent. The motions were unlike anything he had ever known. The plane seemed to fight against some unseen force that wanted to pluck it from the sky and send it hurtling to the earth. They wobbled and they slowed and the jet’s engines shrieked in protest. The nose tilted up, then down, then up again. It was similar to the experience Trent had read about from earthquake survivors, when all sense of stability was stripped away, and they were brought face-to-face with death. Because suddenly that was a very real prospect. As the nose shifted down and the shudders became more violent still, Trent knew with utter certainty that they only had a few moments left to live.
Wind shrieked outside the windows as they left the clouds and hurtled toward the ground. From the cockpit came the frantic sound of two pilots shouting against the blare of an alarm buzzer and some robotic voice telling them to level off.
“Trent!”
If he had not been so frightened, he might have laughed with delight at finally hearing her say his name again. But all he could manage just then was to reach across the narrow aisle to clutch her hand.
They were close enough to see the rain-slick roofs when the plane was abruptly released from whatever force pummeled them. One moment they were spiraling toward their doom, the next, and all was calm. They leveled off and descended and landed, the touchdown smooth as silk.
The pilot’s expression still held tension when he stepped through the portal and asked, “Everybody all right?”
Only then did Gayle release her vise-grip on his fingers. Trent asked, “What was that?”
As the copilot braked and the engines powered down to a stop, the pilot hit the switch to release the portal stairs. “I have no idea.”
Trent walked Gayle toward the waiting limo, holding an umbrella over her. She declared one more time, “This is as senseless as it is dangerous.”
“I’m sorry, Gayle, but you’re wrong this time,” Trent replied. “It is absolutely necessary.”
“You’re putting your life in danger. For what? You think anyone on the executive floor even cares?”
“I do. Yes.”
“You’re wrong, Trent! I’ve worked with them for almost five years. And I’m telling you they only care about one thing. Results.”
“Can I say something?”
“It won’t change how I feel about this needless risk.”
“I don’t want to be just another mid-level executive at Mundrose. I want to be in charge. I want to be a part of the inner circle. I need to show them I understand Barry’s last message, Whatever it takes.” He swiped angrily at the rain beading on his face. “I can’t tell them I’ll do whatever is necessary to succeed. I have to show them. That’s why I’m going.”
She stared at him, defeated. “Not
hing I say will make any difference, will it.”
“No, not this time.” Trent knew a bitter disappointment that Gayle wouldn’t back his play. Or see how vital this step might someday prove. He pointed to where the driver stood waiting by the limo’s open rear door. “I’ll see you back at the offices.”
Gayle slipped into the limo’s rear seat, touched the rain-streaked glass between them, then was gone.
Trent took a taxi into town. Yonkers was not a pretty place to begin with. The heavy rain washed away all remaining color and turned the street scene grim and dismal. The traffic was as snarled and surly as the taxi driver. The cab pulled into an unsightly strip mall and halted before an army surplus store. Trent bought camouflage pants, lace-up black boots, an army-green sweatshirt, and rain slicker, and changed in the rear warehouse. He stowed his suit and tie and shoes in a cheap backpack and returned to his ride.
The taxi deposited Trent in front of a bar whose half-broken sign spit angrily in the rain. A heavy rock bass pounded through the bar’s closed door. A long line of Harley hogs warned away all strangers.
Inside, all was shadows and danger. Trent stood by the door, looking for Dermott McAllister, hoping this was indeed the bar where the strange little man had told him to come.
Instead, a dark-haired woman in biker leather walked up and said, “You might as well just hang a sign around your neck that says, Free lunch.”
“I’m looking for a guy.”
“Yeah, well, the guy isn’t here. I’m Della.”
“You’re Dermott’s contact?”
“I’m the one who’s gonna keep you alive and get the job done. That’s all you need to know.” She spoke with the harsh rasp of someone whose voice box had been on the receiving end of severe damage. “I’m still not clear on what you’re doing here.”
“I’m coming. Like you said, that’s all you need to know.”
“These guys are my friends. But they’re not good at taking orders, especially from someone they don’t know. You try to tell them what to do, they’ll pound you into a greasy stain in the road.”
