Vortex

by Catherine Coulter

  Mike pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, handed it to René. “Press this against your shoulder, hard, to slow the bleeding. I don’t want you to bleed to death. I want you to spend the rest of your life in a French prison.”

  Ruth said cheerfully, “Our only problem was the cold. I swear my fingers are still numb. Ollie suggested that all the bushes move closer together for warmth.”

  Ollie said to Ruth, “Suck your fingers, that’s what I did. It works.” He knelt down beside René, looked at his wound, shook his head at him. “The bullet passed through. No reason to whine.”

  Olivia didn’t know a laugh was lurking, but out it came. She wanted to kiss all of them. She walked to Mike and hugged him tight. He rubbed his cheek against her hair.

  Davis said to Savich, “I called an ambulance for this French bozo.”

  Lucy walked to Claude, went down on her haunches, jerked him onto his stomach, put her cuffs on him. She leaned down, whispered in his ear, “Didn’t work out well for you, either, did it, kidnapping Olivia?” She grinned up at Savich. “I think he called me a bitch.”

  Savich looked at Olivia still standing close to Mike. “You know it isn’t over.”

  She nodded slowly. “Yes, I know. I know.”

  “I’m sorry, Olivia, very sorry.”

  47

  Mia

  One Police Plaza

  New York City

  Friday morning

  It was cold, a stiff wind blowing, but the plaza was packed with reporters and camera crews, and vans lined the street. Mia watched Alex Harrington, flanked by Pamela Barrett, his campaign manager, Cory Hughes, and his senior staffer, Miles Lombardy, and other staffers form a phalanx around him. He strode tall onto the makeshift stage set in front of the fourteen-story New York City Police Department headquarters, his shoulders back, his handsome face set in austere lines.

  He stood at the front of the stage, a dozen microphones in front of him, a sea of media faces staring up at him. He stood a moment, a middle-class winter coat flapping around his legs, a sharp wind blowing his hair, stoic and silent, as dozens of photos were snapped. If Mia didn’t know exactly who and what he really was, she’d have thought he looked heroic.

  When at last he spoke, his deep voice resonated to the far reaches of the plaza. “I thank you all for coming. It is with profound regret I stand here in front of this impressive building to announce I’m stepping out of the mayoral race of this great city.”

  He turned and nodded to the line of people behind him. “I want to thank you, my tireless campaign staff, and tell you how sorry I am to let you down so unexpectedly. Thank you for all your hours of work, for the resources you provided, and for believing in us. What you did was humbling and inspiring. I feel lucky that for a while I was a part of it. I will be forever grateful.

  “I especially want to thank you, Cory Hughes, and you, Miles Lombardy, for your dedication and hard work. With people like all of you leading our dedicated campaign, we might well have won this race.

  “I also want to thank Pamela, my fiancée, for her unwavering belief in me, and, of course, my family, my parents, especially, for helping us make this campaign possible.

  “I so wish I could continue this effort to address so many pressing issues, from health care to quality education for those of us less fortunate.” He paused a moment, studied the faces looking up at him. “I’ve always believed each of us has infinite value, no one individual more than any other. I believe New York should be the vibrant proud soul of our uniquely American spirit.

  “I am proud of this city, and I see what it’s capable of becoming. I firmly believe our way forward is to work toward crossing the chasms that divide us, racial and political. We share so much more in what we value than we sometimes realize.

  “It is with a heavy heart I must now give up my hope to pursue that vision as your mayor, at least today, in this election. All of us have obligations, our families being our touchstones. Both personal and family matters have arisen unexpectedly, and now require my full attention.”

  He paused, looked over the sea of faces. “Thank you very much.”

  Questions roared at him like a tsunami, so many voices it was a chaos of sounds. Alex stood tall, held himself straight, his expression somber, and waited for the voices to die down. He pointed to Cynthia Pederson of FOX. She called out, full volume, “Is there a connection between your quitting the race and your lifelong friend, Kent Harper, being shot last night at his home? Do you have any comments on that shooting, Mr. Harrington?”

  Alex’s jaw turned to granite, but when he spoke, he seemed suddenly to be hanging on by a thread, pain clear in his voice. “Yes, my friend was shot last night outside his home, and that is part of why I am suspending my campaign. Mr. Harper is not only a fine man and one of our civic leaders, he’s been one of my best friends since childhood. I and all his friends and family are praying for him. We trust that our police force”—he turned toward the building behind him—“will discover those responsible for that heinous act.”

  He pointed to Jana Zugoni, CNN. She called out, “There are rumors you are leaving the race because of allegations Mr. Harper was involved in sexual improprieties, even sexual crimes, and that you are, in fact, involved. Would you please comment, Mr. Harrington?”

  Mia smiled. She’d known Alex wouldn’t ever acknowledge her, so she’d given Jana that question. She’d nailed it.

  His hands clutched the edges of the podium, his look both startled and bewildered. “I don’t know where you heard such a ridiculous rumor, Ms. Zugoni, but since you think it responsible to ask, the idea of harming a woman in such a way is abhorrent to me, and to Mr. Harper.” He let anger show. “That is all I will say, more than such a vicious allegation is worth.”

  Before Alex could point to another reporter, Jana shouted out again, “But isn’t that why you’re dropping out, Mr. Harrington? You’re afraid women will come forward?”

  He leaned in, his anger banked again, his voice stern and cold as a Puritan preacher’s. “I do not know where you’ve heard this nonsense, Ms. Zugoni. I will say it again, I am dropping out of the campaign because of personal family issues. Those involved deserve privacy. There is nothing more to it than that.”

  Jana shouted back, “I’m told the allegations stem back to the years you and Mr. Harper attended Bennington Prep together. Would you care to comment?”

  Mia saw no trace of guilt in Alex’s expression, only honest puzzlement and insult, and the controlled anger of the righteous man. He really was very good. He glanced back toward Pamela, whose expression was not as controlled, fury clear on her face. Alex gave a slight shake of his head but she ignored him, strode forward like a force of nature, and placed her gloved hand on his sleeve, ready to leap into the fray. She stared out over the sea of faces in front of her, and slowly, the voices died until there was only the sound of the traffic. When she spoke, Pamela’s voice was filled with pain mixed with fury, a potent combination and very effective. “Kent Harper is also one of my own lifelong friends. He is at this moment fighting for his life, so I will answer for him. He would be as appalled as Mr. Harrington by these slanderous rumors. They are unconscionable and malicious. My fiancé, all of us who love Kent, are suffering along with him from this brutal assault. I think it’s time for you to show some compassion, and some restraint.” Pamela swiped her hand over a tear.

  Alex gently eased her away and stepped back to the microphones. “As you can see, we are all upset. I thank you for coming, and I ask all of you to pray for my friend. We are on our way to Bellevue to be with his family.” He managed a stiff smile toward Pamela, whose tears sparkled on her cheeks.

  And Mia wondered. Tears of pain or tears of rage?

  More questions rang out, but Alex shook his head, took Pamela’s hand in his, and stepped down from the dais, followed by his silent entourage.

  Mia stepped out from behind big Jumbo Hardy of The New Yorker, willed Pamela to see her. Their eyes met and th
e look Pamela sent her way could have burned asphalt. But only for an instant. Her sad, brave smile returned. She walked with Alex to a long black limousine that idled at the curb. He and Pamela disappeared inside.

  48

  Mia

  Bellevue Hospital

  Friday

  Mia watched Kent’s family trail to the elevator headed down to the cafeteria for lunch. She’d just gotten back from One Police Plaza for Alex Harrington’s news conference. It was her chance and she had to hurry. The doctors had told the press his condition was critical, but he was still alive, even breathing on his own, and that was amazing enough. The surgeons refused to speculate whether he’d survive, and the Harper lawyers and family wouldn’t let the police near him. If he died, Alex Harrington would win. Everything Kent knew would be buried with him.

  Would he even be able to talk to her, understand her? She had no idea, only that she had to try. When a nurse walked out of the automatic SICU doors, Mia slipped in. She walked purposefully, as if it was natural for her to be there, as if she belonged, directly to his cubicle and pulled the curtains closed behind her. The small space was dim, utterly still and quiet except for the faint hiss of his oxygen.

  He lay on his back on the bed, white as the sheet pulled up to his neck, a clear plastic half-shell oxygen mask over the bottom half his face, loose enough for him to speak.

  He looked diminished, a shell of himself, insubstantial as a ghost. He looked like a man who was dying. His arms lay exposed on top of the sheet, intravenous lines running to his wrists and to his neck. Vital sign monitors and infusion sets on aluminum poles surrounded his bed.

  Please be awake. Please hear me, please be able to talk to me.

  Mia leaned over him, whispered close to his cheek, “Kent?”

  She waited, whispered again, “Kent, wake up. It’s important you speak to me.”

  Slowly, as if with great effort, his eyelids fluttered. She held her breath, waited, willing him to answer her. He slowly opened his eyes and stared up at her blindly. He looked disoriented, uncertain, but he’d heard her voice, so at least on some level he was aware of her.

  “Kent,” she whispered again. “Can you hear me? Understand me?”

  His eyes stared at her, through her. He whispered, “Aolith?”

  She froze. Aolith? He thought she was Serena?

  Mia drew a slow breath and gently took his hand in hers. His flesh felt slack, his skin clammy. She squeezed lightly, to reassure him, and said quietly next to his cheek, “Yes, Kent, it’s me, Aolith.”

  His voice was only a whisper of sound, his words slurred. “You came because I’m dying? Did you come to tell me you forgive me? I’m so sorry, Aolith, I never wanted you to die. I can feel your hand. How is that possible?”

  Mia leaned in close, lightly touched her fingertips to his forehead. “I know, Kent, I know. Perhaps you can feel my hand because soon we’ll be together again. That night, Kent, my last memories. We had so much fun. You were Snake, dazzling me with your swordplay.”

  He fell silent, the soft hissing of the oxygen again the only sound.

  “Kent?”

  He forced his eyes open, but they seemed empty, still blind. He breathed out her name. “Aolith, the mystical one, perfect for you. I’m so sorry.”

  She squeezed his fingers again, leaned in closer. “I was in a void, floating, just floating, no one to talk to, then suddenly I was here with you and I knew why. I need you to tell me where you and Alex buried me.”

  “Am I dying?”

  “I don’t know, Kent, but maybe that’s why I’m here. I know you didn’t kill me, Alex did.”

  “You saw Alex put a roofie in your drink and he was really mad so he hit you, hit you with his fist against your head, too hard, and you were just—dead.” He jerked at the memory. Mia kept stroking his fingers, prayed for all she was worth.

  “I know you didn’t want me to die. Please, Kent, tell me where I’m buried. I can’t bear this not-knowing. I’ll be trapped in this void until I know.”

  Tears slipped out of his eyes, trailed over his cheeks.

  Mia wiped his tears away with her fingertip. “It’s all right, Kent. I forgive you. It was Alex, not you. Why did Alex start the fire?”

  “So we could get you out. Aolith, I hated that you died, I hated burying you, leaving you alone. I never forgot you.”

  “I know you didn’t. You’re not like Alex. He forgot me, as if I’d never existed, as if he’d never killed me. But Kent, I know you’re different. Please help me.”

  He blinked, his eyes still sheened with tears. She wiped away another tear before it slipped under the oxygen mask. She said in a soft voice, “Remember that night at the rave, how we were laughing? I enjoyed that so much, I thought we were so much alike, but then I saw what Alex did, and then I was afraid, and felt this great pain, then nothing at all. Kent, please tell me where I am. No one knows what happened to me, where I’m buried. My parents grieve for me. Please tell me, Kent, tell me where I am.”

  “You’re in a beautiful place, Aolith, in Valley Forge National Park. Near Pauley’s Farm.”

  He was fading again, his eyelashes fluttering, his breathing slowing.

  “Where near Pauley’s Farm?”

  His voice was dreamy, as if he was seeing the place again. “Not far off the dirt road, by that huge old oak tree that stands alone. In the summer I knew its leaves would cover your grave, shade it. It would be nice.”

  “Where, Kent?”

  She was losing him. She leaned close, her warm breath on his cheek, willing him to speak, and he whispered, his voice insubstantial, “A rough path off a narrow road that leads to the Schuylkill River Trail and that old oak tree. I’m sorry, Aolith, I’m sorry.”

  She leaned down, kissed him on the cheek, whispered, “Thank you, Kent. I hope you won’t die.”

  One of his monitors began to beep. The curtain flew back and a nurse stepped in. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

  Mia jumped out of her way. “I’m his sister. He was awake and we were talking. Please, help him.”

  49

  Whistler

  Wild Oaks Motel

  Fort Lee, New Jersey

  Friday

  Only his mom and his sister called him Oliver, his father didn’t call him anything. He liked what everyone called him now better—Whistler. With that name, he enjoyed being both feared and admired by those in the profession. He even called himself Whistler when he finished a job and always smiled into a mirror and whispered, “Well done, Whistler.”

  But he couldn’t say that this time. He sat on the side of the crappy bed, his hands clasped between his knees, an empty pizza box beside him. For the first time in his professional life, he’d failed. Not once, but twice. It burned, burned deep.

  He hadn’t wanted to run down that damned woman reporter, it was too uncertain, like shoving rich Aunt Mildred down the stairs, no broken neck guaranteed. It was his agent who’d told Whistler the person he worked for wanted it done that way. He could have finished it if not for that idiot kid shouting at him, even with the reporter scooting behind those overstuffed garbage cans. How was he to know garbage was picked up the next morning in that neighborhood?

  And the second job, the second failure. Two clean shots center mass that should have dumped the target right into his grave. How was he to know an FBI agent was right there on the street to call an ambulance? Obviously the principal hiring him hadn’t known that either.

  His agent had told him the principal had called, screamed at him for incompetence. Well, it was true it was his fault, and Whistler had acknowledged it, what could he say? There were always circumstances, but he was fast on his feet, and he’d never failed before. Now he’d have to make it right. Not the reporter—the principal took her off the table for the moment—but Harper had to die. There was still a good possibility he would, everyone said so. If he did live, Whistler would have to find a way into the hospital and pull his plug once and for all. Without get
ting caught. Well, he’d managed harder jobs.

  He looked over at the crappy TV sitting on top of an equally crappy dresser, the picture wavering enough to give him a headache. He saw a news report with that Harrington dude up on a dais, looking like a regular tragic hero, giving his withdrawal speech. He listened with half an ear to the garbage flowing like smooth honey out of Harrington’s mouth when he heard Harrington say the target’s name—Kent Harper—and he straightened like a shot. What was going on here? What was that all about? His agent had told him Harper had to die because he knew some things that couldn’t get out, but that was all. A reporter shouted out something about Harper and sexual improprieties. What a stupid way of saying he liked to screw around. He wouldn’t be much of a man if he didn’t, would he? And it was Harper and Harrington together? Was Harper blackmailing Harrington? Or maybe Harper had screwed the wrong man’s wife?

  Whistler decided he didn’t really care what it was all about. In his experience, everyone was always screwing around on everyone else, trying to gain an advantage, no matter what it took. He’d get his one hundred thousand dollars. If it looked like Harper would live, he’d just have to kill him before the doctors let the cops question him.

  He took a deep breath, upended his Coors can, swallowed the warm beer. He tossed the can into the stingy wastebasket, got up, and began to pace. He was proud of his record. No way would he allow anyone to ruin it, not some schmuck in a freaking hospital.

  Whistler paced the skinny room back and forth, and each time he did, he walked by the bed with its cheap faded chenille bedspread. He wished there’d been a room at the Holiday Inn down the road. At least he’d get good breakfasts and the maids wouldn’t have cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, looking at him like he was some sort of rodent.