He’d tried without any success to track down Moody’s daughter, but she and the damned horse seemed to have completely vanished. He’d find her eventually. Movie stars and race horses didn’t just disappear. In the meantime, he had another call to make, one that was hours overdue. One that he’d be happy to wait a hundred years before making.
Bloch dialed the number slowly, like someone calling a doctor for the results of an important lab test—only it was he who had the bad news.
When his party finally got on the line, Bloch paused, then jumped into it. He played poker that way, bet or get out.
“This is Bernie Bloch,” he said, as confidently as possible. “There’s been a problem. I wasn’t able to get to the auction. I don’t have title to the stallion—yet.”
He leaned back, holding the receiver away from his ear. The other man’s voice was unpleasant, and loud.
“Give me a break here, will you?” Bloch said. “The police wouldn’t let us go. My trainer and her husband are dead. Drug overdose or something, but they kept us all here for questioning.”
He was sweating. His shirt was soaking.
“Look! They wouldn’t let us go! Did you want me to stir up the cops in addition to everything else? … Yes, I did send someone in my place. A good friend. Only there was a mix-up. His daughter ended up with the horse.”
The other man’s voice raged inside the receiver’s earpiece.
“Yes, I know where the horse is!” Bernie said, getting angry himself now. “It’s with her. I’ll take care of everything—in the morning … Look, you gotta understand. There are police all over the place. Local police. Sheriff’s police. Cops who know about horses.”
The voice on the other end became less hostile—or at least, more circumspect.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Bloch said. “It’s all going to work out fine. Like always. Trust me.”
Hanging up, he sat there a long moment, rocking back and forth slightly with his eyes closed. Fatigue and fear had numbed his brain. He needed to think, but couldn’t.
There was a gentle rapping at the door of the suite, so faint that for a moment Bloch wondered if the person was knocking at the room next door. Expecting that it would be his wife, and wondering if she’d done something stupid like losing her key, he swore, got up, and went into the sitting room. Swinging the door open rudely, he found himself looking at the blond, tan, and pink spectacle that was Deena Moody.
“Bernie,” she said, her southern voice a little breathless and husky. “What have you been doing up here?”
“Business,” he said. “Your husband really fucked me up.”
She moved past him, her expensive but too strong perfume making him a little dizzy. “How’s that, Bernie?”
“I really wanted that horse. He should have told me he wasn’t going to make the auction.”
“I’m not too happy with him tonight, either, darlin’.”
He shut the door, making sure of the click of the lock. Having Deena Moody in his hotel room at this hour wasn’t exactly something he would have expected. But nothing that had happened that day had been expected.
“I’ll work it out,” he said. “It’s probably no big deal. Your husband’s a busy man. I forgive him.”
“I don’t,” she said. “Can I have a drink.”
“Sure,” he said, a little uneasily. “A little scotch?”
“Yes, please. And I hope you’ll join me.” She sat down on a couch. “Your charmin’ wife is way ahead of us. Gallons ahead. I’m not sure she can make it up the stairs.”
“She gets that way sometimes,” he said. “More and more lately.”
When he brought Deena her glass, she held it, but did not drink. He leaned back against the arm of a nearby chair, rubbing his belly, a nervous habit.
“So, you enjoying the weekend, Deena?”
“Up until tonight.”
“I like it when we can all get together,” he said.
“You and I never get to talk much.”
“Always happy to see you.”
They stared at each other for a long moment. He was amazed at how awake and alert she looked at this hour, at the directness of her gaze.
“I like you, Bernie,” she said, softly. “I’ve never had a chance to tell you how much.”
“I like you, too, Deena. I was really glad when Bobby decided to marry you. His first wife and I, we didn’t get along too well.”
Another silence. Her eyes never wavered. She took a deep breath, her breasts heaving against the low neckline of her dress.
“Life is short, Bernie. We shouldn’t pass up its opportunities. You’re not a man to pass up an opportunity, are you?”
“Well, not often.”
She put down her glass. “I like you, Bernie, and I’m mad as hell at my husband.”
“Deena …”
“We’re both grown-ups. You’re about the most grown-up man I know.”
His mind reflexively began calculating—possibilities, odds, problems.
She stood up. Her kiss took him by surprise. Afterward, a funny, happy look came into her eyes—like an artist pleased with the effect of a brush stroke.
“What do you think, Bernie?”
“Sherrie could come through that door any minute.”
“I don’t think so, sweetheart, but we probably don’t have a lot of time. It can’t be the way I’d really like it. But it can be somethin’.”
“Deena, I don’t know. I …”
She reached for the back of her dress. “I’m going to take off my clothes. I want you to see me, Bernie.”
Her movements were well practiced. Her dress slid to the floor with a hushed rustle. The rest came off quickly.
She looked even better than he had imagined, and he had thought about that many times. Few women her age could manage to look like that.
“Don’t move,” she said, coming close again. “You’re not going to have to do a thing.”
The first touch of her tongue struck him like an electric current. He looked down the gleaming smoothness of her back to the roundness of her bottom, then closed his eyes.
Bob Moody had just caused him a major amount of trouble. It ought to cost him something.
Deena was just pulling on her dress when the key turned suddenly in the lock. Bloch, still emerging from his bliss, had not yet dealt with his pants and the door opened before he could. The dread certainty that it was his wife became surprise as Lenore Fairbrother stuck her head into the room.
“Oh dear,” she said. “This suite is most definitely occupied.”
Bloch turned around, struggling furiously with his zipper, swearing. “Do calm down, Mr. Bloch, darling,” Lenore continued. “Sinning is the rule here on race weekends. If you hope to be a regular you’re going to have to get used to that.”
Deena, her dress more or less in place, looked frantically about for a route of escape. Finding none, she decided to retreat into indignation. Her voice got very Southern.
“How dare you walk in here like this? Where did you get that key?”
Lenore pulled it from the lock. It was on a large brass ring with many others.
“My dear husband, who owns most everything in Dandytown, also owns this inn,” she said. “You may consider me room service. I’m sure you didn’t order her, but I’m bringing you an unconscious and quite terribly drunk woman who’s been misbehaving in the bar. Your charming wife, I believe. Two helpful gentlemen are just now carrying her up the stairs.”
Bloch gave up on his zipper and simply pulled out his shirt, yanking it down around him. He was calculating how much he was going to be in this woman’s obligation.
“Could you get out of here, Mrs. Fairbrother?”
“Of course, dear boy.” Enjoying herself immensely, she glanced at Deena, who was reaching into the bodice of her dress to straighten her bra. “You two will probably want to make yourselves more presentable, so I’ll delay the two gentlemen for a moment.”
She st
epped back into the hall, then hesitated, returning her face to the doorway. She was probably as drunk as Sherrie, but quite in control of her speech.
“I shall have your wife brought in now, Mr. Bloch,” she said. “If you should like her taken away again, just call the desk. Or if you like, just put her out in the hall. Nighty night.”
Alixe Percy had fallen asleep waiting on the porch of Showers’ house while waiting for his return, slumbering so deeply she didn’t hear the approach of his Jeep. Seeing her collapsed in one of his wicker chairs, Showers sent Becky off to bed, then hobbled up the porch steps and eased himself into an adjoining chair. He was so tired he could think of nothing to say, and just sat for a long moment.
Alixe was snoring, quietly, but without promise of cessation.
“Alixe,” he said finally, just as quietly.
The snoring continued.
“Alixe!”
She snorted, her head snapping forward, then looked quickly about her, smiling when she saw him. She looked at her watch.
“My God, man,” she said. “You’ve been out half the night. You and the fair young Becky been out in the hay?”
Showers sighed wearily, closing his eyes, “No, Alixe. We’ve been with Moonsugar. It looks good. I really think he’s going to make it. I think I’m going to be able to give Fairbrother back his horse.”
“He won’t want it. You know how he is about damaged goods. No, David, whatever else you did out on that course today, you won yourself a horse. If he comes through it well enough, you may be able to use him in the dressage ring.”
Showers stretched out his injured leg. “Just what I need, another mouth in the barn to fed.”
She hesitated, then decided there might be advantage in his sleepiness.
“That stallion out of Queen Tashamore’s granddaughter went pretty cheap tonight,” she said.
Showers only stared at the woods.
“Ten thousand,” she said. “Someone from out of state.”
“They got a bargain, unless there’s something wrong with it.”
“Looked good to me.”
“Looked good to me, too. There are other horses.”
“I may be able to pick it up even cheaper. I don’t think this was a really serious buyer.”
“Not Bernie Bloch?”
“He didn’t even show. Vicky Clay must have been wrong.”
“In too many ways.”
“Poor little wretch. If she hadn’t killed so many horses, I’d feel sorry for her.”
“I feel sorry for her.”
“You feel sorry for everyone, David, including a lot of people who’d be a lot better off if someone just gave them a kick in the ass once in a while. Including a Lenore Fairbrother I could name.”
“If it weren’t for Lenore, Lynwood might have put Moonsugar down.”
“That’s Lenore, a regular Mother Teresa.” She stretched and yawned. “David, if I can get this horse, are you still interested?”
“No, Alixe. I’ll have my hands full with Moonsugar. And this treaty is going to take a lot of my time.”
“Well, I’m going to see if I can’t do a little horse trading anyway. I’ve got room in my stable, and I think that’s more horse than she wanted to buy.”
“She?”
“The buyer. I think I may be able to work something out. If I do, and you change your mind, maybe you and I can do some horse trading.”
“Not anytime soon.”
Alixe slapped her knees and stood up. “Hell, David. It’s been hours since I’ve had a drink. You want to join me?”
“No, thanks, Alixe. I’ve got an early day.”
“All right, dear heart. Just remember, my bottle’s always open.”
She laughed, feeling good. “Good night, dearie. Take care of that leg.”
He watched her stride off into the night.
Somehow, he managed to get himself upstairs, setting his alarm for an hour so early that going to bed seemed a pointless formality. After undressing, he lay back against his old-fashioned country pillow, turning his thoughts to the day to come, wondering if he could handle the long drive to the capital in his Jeep. At the very least, it would be extremely painful, but there was nothing else to be done. It was his job. Jumping horses was his pleasure, and no excuse for truancy.
He closed his eyes. As sometimes happened, the day’s events rushed by in hurried memory, and he could almost hear the pounding of horses’ hooves. He saw Jimmy Kipp’s blood again, spattered over the grass. He saw Kipp’s injured horse rise and fall and die. But he fell asleep with a pleasant image in his mind, the face of the dark-haired woman he’d encountered in the aid station. He could see her in the most perfect detail. He supposed all beautiful movie stars affected one that memorably.
Five
Secretary of State Hollis had made the kind of mistake Moody would expect from a loser.
Hollis’s first attempt to climb the small but respectable Swiss mountain called Der Mädchenberg had been foiled by rain and slippery surfaces and his own fear. His second effort was curtailed when his Swiss guide unexpectedly developed stomach cramps. In two days, Hollis was due at the United Nations conference in Geneva that was his ostensible reason for coming to Switzerland. That left time for one more attempt—if he was quick about it—and he’d rashly decided to make a try. He had climbed a number of decent little mountains in the United States and around the world, but never a genuine Swiss Alp. He wanted to go back to Washington with a photograph of himself standing on the Mädchenberg’s summit, just as his big-game-hunting predecessor James Baker had returned from so many diplomatic missions with wild animal trophies—missions that had little other real purpose.
What made the little Mädchenberg so respectable was a formidable rock face that, with three breaks, rose in an otherwise nearly sheer wall for more than two thousand feet on the mountain’s north slope. There were seven overhangs to be surmounted, and a dangerous traverse across a deep, diagonal crevasse. The secretary of state would have reason to be proud of his photo.
Hollis and his guide, recovered from his cramps, were camped on a fold of ridge high up on the Mädchenberg when the call came over the two-way radio about the crisis in Belize. Informed by staff who had remained behind in the village that the situation was under control and that the president had not requested his presence, Hollis had elected to stay and complete his climb. He was so desperate to do it he probably would have fended off a call to return from the president himself.
Hollis was a man of fifty-eight who vigorously kept himself in the physical condition of someone a good fifteen years younger. He was an experienced if not inordinately expert climber who had scaled New Hampshire’s 6,200-foot Mount Washington when he was only fourteen. But his skill could not compensate for his haste.
The rains returned the morning of his final ascent. Attempting to keep to schedule, Hollis moved too quickly clambering up over the rock face’s second overhang. His hand slipped, then his foot, and he fell backward, head first.
He was well roped. His guide, in the lead, had set his pitons well. Had Hollis dropped straight down, he would have easily survived, except for bruises from his harness. But when he began to lose purchase, his efforts to hang on were so frantic that he pushed out when he fell. After the rope snapped taut, he swung back against the wall like a weight on a pendulum, spinning as he swung. Instead of striking the rock cliff with his feet, as a truly expert climber might have managed, he collided head first. The guide, perched on the overhang just above, heard a shout and then a popping thud.
The secretary had hired a helicopter to take photographs and videotape footage during the ascent and then pluck them off the summit once the climb was done. The pilot/photographer captured the entire tragedy. After he and the guide had brought Hollis’s body down, he sold the pictures to an American television correspondent from Geneva. They were on CNN in a few hours.
Usually, Moody was the first high-ranking official in the White House to be t
old of such momentous events. Any staffer who failed to inform him first could find himself or herself suddenly transferred to the Department of Housing and Urban Development, or some worse bureaucratic purgatory. But at the early morning hour at which the news arrived, Moody was closeted in his West Wing office with Senators Reidy and Sorenson and had threatened beheadings if he was disturbed by anyone except the president or General St. Angelo.
Instead of taking his guests to the informal circle of armchairs he kept by his office fireplace—an arrangement more conducive to relaxed and informal conversation—Moody remained behind his huge antique desk, placing his two guests in stiff-backed chairs in front of him, like subordinates making a report.
Senate Majority Leader Reidy was a rough-hewn but unusually handsome man, politically experienced, legislatively clever, at ease in leadership, and very, very smart. He had a picture-perfect family, a doctorate in history, a respectable military record, was a familiar face on the Sunday morning television news interview shows, and had done important favors for virtually every major politician in his party. He had waited until just the right time to make his move for the presidency. It had utterly dumbfounded him to have lost early in the Democratic primaries to the cold, visionary, pompous Massachusetts aristocrat who now occupied the Oval Office. Reidy had not accepted the pundits’ conventional wisdom that his failure was entirely due to his refusal to take a strong, forthright stand on any of the contentious issues that had dominated the campaign—especially the environmental ones that his rival had forged into a personal crusade. Reidy bore a deep, bitter resentment bordering on hatred toward everyone responsible for his defeat—except, of course, himself.
But he was a skilled, professional politician, and surface affability was very much a part of his job and his method. Though he despised Moody, he always shook his hand warmly, calling him “Bobby.” Reidy was a westerner from one of the mountain states, and informality came easily to him. A Stanford graduate and onetime Rhodes scholar, he was nevertheless fond of wearing cowboy hats and telling off-color jokes. He was as ruthless a lawmaker as had ever survived and succeeded on Capitol Hill. As had once been said of Lincoln, those who underestimated Reidy quickly found their backs against the bottom of a ditch. Moody didn’t trust him much, but admired him.
The Last Virginia Gentleman Page 10
