The Echo of the Whip

by Joseph Flynn

  “I’ve got to go, Byron.”

  “Be careful, Abra.”

  It comforted her that they’d reverted to first names in a moment of possible danger.

  There was still some measure of personal concern between them.

  She hung up and threw on a robe. Walking to the door, she said, “Coming. Who’s there, please?”

  A voice responded, “It’s me, Billy. From last night.”

  Sonofabitch, Abra thought, maybe she would be the agent to take down Tyler Busby.

  Wouldn’t that look good on her résumé?

  “How do you know the number of my suite? Did you follow me?”

  He hadn’t; she’d been careful about that. Still, it didn’t hurt to mislead him about her watchfulness.

  “No, of course not. I would never do such a thing. I … simply have friends in this hotel. Business contacts you might say. May I please come in? I have what might be an interesting proposition for you to consider.”

  Abra thought quickly. Let him in or put him off. She went with letting him in; she’d watched the way he moved last night. The guy was no athlete. She was and she’d had training both at Quantico and, well, Israel.

  She opened the door and told Billy, “Breakfast is on you. I don’t like anyone snooping on me.”

  Billy smiled, stepped inside and took a peek at her cleavage.

  Abra noticed that, but neither pulled her robe more tightly closed nor chastised him. She only turned her back on him and took a seat at the suite’s dining table. She crossed her legs and waited for Billy to join her, more sure than ever that he worked in the sex trade. Having subverted at least one well-placed staffer at a five-star hotel to get her suite number, there was also a chance he dealt with clients of Busby’s stature.

  Billy stopped at the nearby wet bar and picked up a house phone.

  “What would you like to eat?”

  “Coffee with cream, half a grapefruit, uncooked oatmeal with brown sugar and a split of good champagne.”

  The first three items were her typical breakfast, the bubbly was a bit of improv. Abra decided it wouldn’t be a bad idea to let Billy think maybe she had a little drinking problem.

  He ordered for her in Spanish. She listened closely and didn’t hear anything but what she requested. Still, the fix could have been put in ahead of time. He might have offered to buy breakfast if she hadn’t demanded it. Slip a mickey into the coffee, and she’d be at his mercy.

  If he even knew what mercy meant.

  She decided not to touch any of the breakfast, while he was in the suite or afterward.

  It would be tragically funny, having told Byron that she could take care of herself, if she wound up dead. “So what do you want, Billy? What’s this interesting proposition of yours?”

  Nice choice of a word, she thought. Proposition.

  He sat across the table from her and smiled. “I was thinking about what you said last night: that at least your marriage had succeeded in terms of the money you would take from it. A very practical attitude on your part.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Abra said, her tone flat.

  Billy read the subtext and dropped the rest of the canned corn he’d prepared for her.

  “Very well, I will come to the point. I have heard from many American women that divorces in your country can take quite a long time to come to resolution. Years, possibly.”

  Abra produced a harsh laugh. “Until hell freezes over, according to that schmuck I married.”

  “Yes, well, that is what I mean. Perhaps you have the means to wait him out in a place such as this.” He gestured to the lavishly furnished suite. “Or perhaps you do not.”

  “Okay,” Abra said, “here’s where we get to the good part, right? You’re going to tell me about all the money I can make until my divorce settlement comes through and what I have to do to get it.” She held up a hand as Billy began to speak. “No, don’t tell me. I bet I can guess. What we’re talking about here is sex. Good old S-E-X.”

  Billy nodded.

  “Well, thanks for being honest,” Abra said.” Try to keep telling the truth. Is this the plain old man-and-woman hokey-pokey activity we’re talking about here? Or is it a crowd-and-freak scene?”

  “Most likely it is one-to-one, heterosexual, within conventional practices. Possibly, there might be a second woman.”

  “But just the one guy?”

  “Yes.”

  Abra leaned forward. “And he can pay well enough to interest someone like me?”

  Billy mentioned the fee available for a week of Abra’s time.

  She smiled, honestly impressed. “Wow. He must be one rich SOB. You’re sure there’s no bondage and whips involved here?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  She sat back, stared at Billy, her arms folded across her chest.

  “I bet this horny bastard likes his privacy, doesn’t he?”

  “Being discreet is part of the job, yes.”

  “Okay, tell me where I’d have to go. Is he right here in the hotel?”

  Billy shook his head. “No, not here, but not far. I can take you with no problem.”

  “Unh-uh,” Abra said, shaking her head. “Mama told me never to get into a car with a strange man. I might wind up in the Middle East getting poked by some old shit who thinks he’s a sultan. You tell me where to go and I find my way there at the appointed time or you can take a walk right now.”

  Billy glared at Abra and she knew just what kind of misogynistic crap was surging through his mind. He wanted to force her to be obedient and, more than that, he wanted to bang her before his client ever got the chance. She told him as much.

  “You want to sample the goodies, don’t you?”

  Billy got to his feet, the first move toward coming around the table.

  Maybe even over it.

  Abra pointed at his chair and said in a commanding voice. “Sit down. I’m going to tell you something.” She stared at him, never blinking, until he complied. “I told you about my cousin and her husband in Israel. Well, her husband is IDF special forces. The six months I stayed with them, I got training in marksmanship and close quarters combat every single day. Just like my cousin did. Her husband is a big believer in women knowing how to protect themselves. You come at me, I’m going to put you in a wrist-lock or an arm-bar and run you right through that window over there in the living room, and we’re on the seventeenth floor, aren’t we? It’d be a shame if you landed on someone walking by the hotel, but I’m willing to take that chance.”

  Abra had delivered her spiel in a cold monotone. Every word rang true, because it was all true. Billy got up again and went to the door to the hallway. Abra stopped him there.

  “Hey, I am interested in that money on my terms. If you get over your pout, let me know. Just call. There’s no need to come back.”

  Billy left and Abra locked and bolted the door after him.

  She called room service and canceled the order.

  Then she called Byron back. Even if Billy didn’t give in to her demands, the deputy director could have other FBI agents trail Billy, find out where he lived, wiretap him. Hell, kidnap the prick if it came to that. They’d find out where the other hookers were being taken to haul Busby’s ashes. Then they’d grab the big prize and fly him back to the U.S.

  That wouldn’t be as much fun as slapping handcuffs on him personally, but it would deserve a big promotion. What more could a girl want?

  The White House — Washington, DC

  The president closed the lid of the iBook and she and McGill turned their heads to look at Galia, an unspoken question in their eyes.

  “What?” the chief of staff asked. “You think I have the kind of pull with the chief justice of the United States to get him to do what he just said?”

  McGill replied, “There’s no doubt in my mind you’d do whatever was necessary. The only question is whether you have the leverage.”

  The president remained silent.

  “I do
n’t,” Galia said. “Craig MacLaren is a widower. He was faithful to his late wife throughout their marriage as far as I know. Some people, after they lose a spouse, are afraid to take the risk of engaging with another person. They don’t ever want to go through that pain again.”

  Galia might have been speaking of herself.

  Patti Grant had also lost her first husband, but had taken the chance.

  She squeezed Galia’s hand in sympathy.

  McGill stayed on point. “So you had nothing to do with MacLaren’s bold move?”

  The chief of staff shook her head.

  “How do you think his move will play with the other side?” the president asked. “How will our adversaries in the House and Senate respond?”

  A smile lit Galia’s face. “They’ll huff and puff and maybe even pass gas in public, but there’s not a damn thing they can do. The job of presiding over the impeachment trial of a president is articulated in the Constitution. If they try to force MacLaren out simply because he says he’s going to use his First Amendment rights to analyze the proceedings, they’ll be roasted alive by public opinion. Besides, even if they succeeded, Jean Morrissey would be the next in line to preside, and that would be something to see. If they tried to get rid of her, too, well, it might be time for a new revolution.”

  McGill looked at his wife. “Thank God, we’ve got the commander-in-chief on our side.”

  Patti Grant held up a hand. “Let’s not get too melodramatic. There’s not going to be any coup d’état in the United States. My view is Craig MacLaren just streamlined things for my legal team and me. Whatever questions the prosecution has will be factually oriented. Did I have any prior agreement with Joan Renshaw to kill Erna Godfrey, and if so is there any proof of the conspiracy? Political posturing and theorizing will have to take place outside the Senate.”

  McGill nodded. “I think that’s right. Inside the Capitol, things are going to move at a snappy pace. The votes on the GOP-True South side are fixed. The only question is, can we hold enough Democratic votes to avoid the two-thirds requirement to convict?”

  Patti and McGill looked at each other.

  Then both of them turned their eyes to Galia.

  Walter Reed National Military Medical Center — Bethesda, Maryland

  Joan Renshaw woke up in her hospital room. It took a long moment to orient herself. She felt so damn weak that separating her eyelids had taken a conscious effort. Still, that simple task was easier this time than the previous one. The next chore was getting her eyes to focus. Blinking helped in the way windshield wipers cleared a driver’s view of the road.

  Christ, she wondered if she’d ever be healthy again.

  She also asked herself whether the investigator from the House prosecution committee would come back for another statement. Basically, all she’d done last time was answer one question in the affirmative.

  The woman in her off-the-rack business suit had identified herself as Janine Bosworth and asked: “Did the president, Patricia Grant, arrange for you to be put in a prison cell with Erna Godfrey for the purpose of having you kill Mrs. Godfrey?”

  Thinking about that now, Joan realized it was what lawyers called a leading question. The point was to paint a bull’s-eye on the person whose life you wished to ruin. That had worked just fine for Joan. She hated Patti Grant.

  She’d croaked out, “Yes.”

  One syllable was the extent of her testimony.

  That was good enough for Janine Bosworth. She said, “I may or may not be back with other questions. Or someone else might come and talk with you.”

  A real bleeding heart that Janine. Hadn’t asked Joan if she was feeling better, what her outlook was, hadn’t even said goodbye. More important than any lack of social graces, the bitch hadn’t talked about offering any consideration in return for Joan’s testimony when it came time to testify under oath. Leniency at the least, a walk in the best case.

  Joan knew that freedom in the short term would be a real reach. She had conspired to kill the president of the United States, and she’d actually choked a woman to death. But she planned to swear to God and on her mother’s grave that she could not remember doing either of those things. That way maybe she could get out of prison in, say, five years. After Patti Grant had been out of office a good long time and nobody much gave a damn about her anymore.

  Of course, it would be tricky trying to convince people she was sincere in saying she couldn’t remember her own guilt in two crimes while being crystal clear on the president arranging the death of that awful bible-thumper Erna Godfrey. God but she still hated that woman, would strangle her again, only more slowly, if she got a second chance.

  Of course, she’d have to mask her enmity for that damn Godfrey woman if she was called to testify against Patti Grant. She’d have to make it clear she’d choked her out only because the president had promised to offer her a pardon. Hah, wasn’t that a laugh?

  Doing so much heavy thinking was wearying Joan.

  Only she was scared spitless about going back to sleep. How could she know she would wake up after four, six or eight hours? Maybe she’d never regain consciousness again. Of course, if she was sentenced to life in prison, maybe that wouldn’t be a bad way to go.

  In the end, though, it wasn’t her choice whether she would lapse into sleep. She was so damn tired it was inevitable. Just as she was about drift off, Joan noticed something that struck her as more than a bit strange. Someone had left a vase of flowers on the tray next her bed, and there was a card with the bouquet.

  “No way, no damn way,” Joan muttered.

  She wasn’t at The Betty Ford Center drying out. She had to be in a prison ward. Who the hell got flowers in prison?

  Straining hard, she reached out and plucked the card from the flowers. Opening the envelope and positioning the card so the light hit it straight on was yet another chore. Lastly, she had to interpret the cursive handwriting.

  After she managed all that, she saw: The truth may or may not set you free, but a lie will guarantee you a very bad time.

  Understanding the nature of the threat that had been delivered to her — lie about the president at your own peril — Joan reached another milestone of recovery. She screamed at the top of her lungs.

  Punta del Este, Uruguay

  “What’s the little guy’s name?”

  Lieutenant Silvina Reyes of the Uruguayan National Police looked up from changing the diaper on Santiago Calvo, the infant son of her superior Captain Antonio Calvo.

  “Momentito,” she replied to the American who was pretending to be a Canadian and calling himself Bruce Mallory. Her mind whirled with the question of why the man had approached her. His motive did not seem to be lechery, at least not so far.

  She finished cleaning Santiago’s bottom, fastening a fresh diaper on him and putting the soiled one in a carry bag.

  “¿Cómo está, Señor?” Silvina asked.

  “Bueno, y usted?” Good, and you?

  “Bueno tambien.” Good also.

  To Silvina’s ear, the American’s confident tone told her he spoke more than a little Spanish, possibly might be fluent, but she couldn’t place his accent. It wasn’t from New York, St. Louis, Austin or any other place she’d visited in the U.S. Still, she would know better than to speak her native language and think he wouldn’t understand her.

  She said in English, “The niño, he is called Santiago.”

  “Named in honor of Saint James, is he?”

  That tidbit of knowledge surprised Silvina, and she let the emotion show on her face.

  “Names and their meaning are a hobby of mine,” the man said.

  No doubt because you use more than the one your mother gave you, she thought.

  Still, she played the innocent.

  “Do you and your wife need a nanny, Señor? I have a friend who —”

  He waved his hand. “Thank you but no. I am not married and I have no children. What I’d like to know is if perhaps you know a pol
iceman.”

  “Señor?”

  “I saw a new neighbor move in across the street from me. I believe he’s someone I’ve seen before, in the United States.”

  “¿Sí?”

  “If I’m not mistaken, he is a very famous man.”

  “From the cinema?”

  The man calling himself Mallory shook his head. “No, this man is famous for the crime he tried to commit.”

  Silvina tried her best to make her body shrivel in fear. Even so, she tilted her head forward attentively and said, “¿Qué?” What?

  “He tried to kill the president of the United States.”

  Silvina covered her mouth and let her eyes go wide in horror.

  Thinking to herself mierda santa — holy shit — is this guy for real?

  “Who is this man?” she asked trying her best to make her voice tremulous.

  “I don’t know what he’s calling himself here, but his real name is Tyler Busby.”

  “Why do you tell me this, Señor?”

  “Well, I can’t say for sure, but my guess is the American government has put a bounty on his head, a reward, yes?”

  Silvina played dumb, pretending not to understand.

  “Una recompensa. ¿Comprende?”

  Silvina’s impression that Bruce Mallory spoke more than a little Spanish was just confirmed.

  “Why don’t you take this money for yourself?” she asked.

  He looked all around before telling her, “I’m hiding out.”

  That admission genuinely caught Silvina off guard. She pulled Santiago’s pram back a step, ready to shove the child out of harm’s way if she had to defend herself. But Mallory only held up his hands to reassure her.

  “I have two brothers. Each of them is trying to take over our father’s company in Vancouver. I’m the one who can cast the deciding vote, but I don’t want to do that. I want my brothers to settle things between themselves. Do you see?”

  Silvina felt sure Mallory was lying, but she had to admire the plausibility of his story.

  So she nodded.

  He went on, “If you have family or a friend in the police, you could arrest this man and claim the reward. You’d all be heroes.”