The Last Virginia Gentleman

by Michael Kilian

  “Alixe. Ned Haney had some ideas. There’s not a lot we can do, but there’s something. We should talk about it.”

  “Not tonight, m’dear. Thanks for taking in my homeless orphans. They were grazing my lawn down to the nubs.”

  “It’s the very least I could do.”

  “You’re a hell of a man. The best in the county. I curse the day you ever laid eyes on Lenore.”

  “Good night, Alixe. See you in the morning.”

  “In the morning. I’ve got an idea where we can hide that bay stallion. You won’t like it, but it’s a good idea.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s a girl jockey up in Charles Town in West Virginia. She used to ride for me during my brief career in flat-track racing. She’s got a little barn on her place. She’d take really good care of the bay—and it would be the last place in the world anyone would look for a horse of yours or mine.”

  “You’re quite certain that’s necessary?”

  “David. You want your barn burned down, too? You want to see Becky lying in the ashes like that groom?”

  “Good night, Alixe. Pleasant dreams.”

  Making himself a cup of coffee, he tackled the letter to the Thoroughbred Association first, managing somehow to make it comprehensible. The other took longer. When he’d finished, it was nearly midnight.

  He stepped outside. Alixe’s stable hands had moved her horses into his barn, but were still working on them. He could hear them talking, to each other and to the horses, sometimes loudly and profanely.

  Showers went over to join them. They’d been feeding and rubbing down the stock, and were almost done. They declined his offer to help, so he went down to the big stall at the end, where they’d put the Queen Tashamore bay.

  He seemed glad of so much equine company. One of Showers’ barn cats sat perched on a shelf on the stall wall—a visiting friend.

  Showers entered the stall. The horse backed up at the intrusion, but then stood still, allowing him to approach. Speaking to it gently, he patted its neck, wishing he had a name to call it.

  He looked into the bay’s eye. His father would have kept this horse—or sold it quickly for the money it was worth to buy others, and fuel his country gentleman lifestyle. His father, after all, had sold Queen Tashamore. Showers could imagine the man on the phone right now, ringing up Bernie Bloch, saying, “If you want this stallion, you’ll pay its true value. That’s how we do things in Banastre County.”

  What was this splendid animal’s true value? Was there some defect that neither he nor Alixe nor Kerry Donahue had detected? Was it sterile? Was it balky? Where had it come from? What had it been through in its young life? It knew so many secrets.

  “David.”

  Becky was standing in the open stall door. She was wearing a nightdress, her large breasts much revealed by the open neckline, and a pair of unlaced L.L. Bean outdoor shoes.

  “You’ve slept the day away,” he said. “Now you’ll be up all night.”

  “David, I think Billy was here last night.”

  “That’s what Alixe thought. She was sure he was responsible for the barn fire. But it appears he was somewhere else. With a woman.”

  “He was here. Do you remember that videotape he left behind? The one marked VICKY?”

  He looked down at the stall door. “I thought you were going to return that.”

  “I had it in my tape machine. And now it’s gone. It had to be him. I mean, you didn’t take it, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t take it.”

  “That goddamned Billy. He must have gone into the cottage when we were all over at Alixe’s.”

  “No one saw him.”

  “Who could have? We were all out chasing after horses.”

  “Becky. It was his tape. You should have returned it.”

  “It belonged to Vicky. I was going to burn it.”

  “What was on that tape?” The question was dishonest. The few seconds he’d spent watching it now made him feel very guilty.

  “You knew Vicky. Some awful and degrading things—things her family wouldn’t want anyone to see.”

  “You’re sure you haven’t just misplaced it?” he asked.

  “No. It was in the machine. And now he has it.”

  “We have more important problems. If it’s gone, it’s gone. It had nothing to do with you.”

  She said nothing.

  “Becky, will you be all right out here? I have to go back to Washington tomorrow.”

  “I know. You always do.”

  Eight

  Robert Moody had never before missed a cabinet meeting, but he had the best reason imaginable for skipping the one scheduled for this morning. After three false starts, the Senate Foreign Relations Committee was at last going to vote on the Earth Treaty, and Moody didn’t want to be more than a few feet away from those who would be casting the votes. He wanted every one of them to be looking into his eyes when the count came.

  The committee room was in the Dirksen Senate Office Building. Moody, accompanied by Wolfenson and two other aides, had the limo pull up at a rear entrance, sent one of the aides ahead to hold an elevator, made a quick call to the White House on the car phone to be certain the president had received his message explaining his absence, then swept inside, security guards and bystanders moving quickly out of the way.

  “What’s the last nose count?” he said to Wolfenson, as the elevator doors closed.

  “Three wobblies. Including Sorenson. He had Japanese visitors out to his house over the weekend. Some people from that auto plant they’re building in his state.”

  “I’ll take care of him,” Moody said.

  Upstairs, a number of lobbyists were hanging about in the corridor, along with a large contingent of press and television reporters. Moody moved past them, nodding but ignoring questions, until he came to a correspondent whose paper was friendly to the administration. Halting at the man’s greeting, he began chatting with him. The others quickly gathered around, and he was shortly caught up in a full-fledged if impromptu news conference.

  Most of the questions followed the line that the treaty was in trouble and the president was facing serious embarrassment. Would he try again if the treaty failed? Did the president have only himself to blame because he was too aloof and standoffish to work the lawmakers in person? Would the newest report on the greenhouse effect make a difference?

  Moody dealt with them noncommittally but at considerable length, surprising the news people with his friendliness. The exercise was all to a different purpose. He had positioned himself near the hearing room doorway without looking as though he intended to be there, visible to every committee member as he or she came along the corridor. When he caught a glimpse of Sorenson hurrying down the hall, Moody quickly concluded his answer to the last question posed him and waved off all others. Pausing to gather his assistants about him, he started for the committee room just as Sorenson drew near.

  “Good morning, Senator,” he said, almost cheerily.

  “Good morning.” Sorenson looked unhappy.

  With a deft movement, Moody drew him aside.

  “I just wanted to tell you that I put your wife’s name through this morning for the Kennedy Center.”

  “You did?” Now the senator seemed impatient.

  “Yes.” Moody glanced at his watch. “My secretary should be calling her with the news right now. I expect she’ll be real happy to see you when you get home tonight.”

  Moody’s point hit home. He ground it into the wound.

  “It’ll require approval by the trustees, but I don’t expect any problem. Do you, senator? No problems, right?”

  “Thanks,” said Sorenson. He pushed ahead.

  Moody and his people took VIP seats set aside for them in the front of the spectator section. The room was very crowded. Moody noticed David Showers sitting among other State Department staff over to the side, and was reminded that he had three messages from the Japanese ambassador on his des
k. He had no intention of returning the man’s calls until after this vote.

  The chairman held off long enough to allow one of the members to ask some last-minute questions of a staffer from the Environmental Protection Agency. That done, he asked for a call of the roll. As each cast their vote, most of the senators made statements that amounted to short speeches, carefully worded highly political expressions of concern for both the environment and constituents’ jobs. Sorenson merely said “aye.”

  The vote was unanimous.

  The cabinet meeting, as usual, had started late, and was still in progress when Moody returned to the White House. As he entered the room, heading for his usual seat just behind the president, he sensed they had been waiting for him. The president was beaming. He’d obviously received the news.

  The treasury secretary was droning on about the money supply, reading from a report. Taking note of the president’s ebullient reaction to Moody’s entrance, the secretary quickly wound up his presentation, then sat back. All eyes turned to the boss.

  “Thank you, Mr. Secretary,” the president said. “Thank you very much. Uh, ladies and gentlemen, as most of you know, this administration faced its first major test on the Earth Treaty this morning. The note that was handed to me a few minutes ago brings good tidings. We have prevailed. There was not a single dissenting vote.”

  The cabinet broke into applause, led by the vice president.

  As it subsided, the president turned to look back at Moody. “There wasn’t a hitch of any kind, was there, Robert?”

  “None whatsoever, sir.”

  “I am not only pleased, I am deeply moved,” the president said. “This success was the result of tireless effort and a refusal to compromise an awesomely important principle. Each and every one of you did your part, but I am particularly grateful to the late secretary of state—to my friend Skip Hollis—and his staff, who worked day and night making this possible. Skip gave his heart and soul to his effort. In a sense, he gave his life. A major reason for his going to Geneva was to use the opportunity to press the issue with the foreign ministers gathered there. And with great effect. I’ve also been informed that the British House of Commons approved a bill of ratification a few hours ago.”

  He halted, staring down at the polished tabletop. Moody worked hard to keep his expression utterly blank.

  The president cleared his throat, regathering his composure.

  “We also owe a great debt to a man I consider my right hand. Governor Moody was in the trenches fighting for this to the last round. I couldn’t have done without him.”

  More applause followed, this time led by Waldemar Sadinauskas. The vice president’s hands came together softly. He allowed himself a quick, dark glance at Moody, who returned it.

  The vice president was no fool. A senator from Ohio who had been the first to enter the last presidential race, he’d been clever enough to drop out and declare for the eventual victor on the eve of the Pennsylvania primary, which the president had won in a close vote. It had been clear to Moody that the man had stood no chance even in his home state, but the president had credited him with making the victory possible, and rewarded him accordingly. Moody knew the vice president to be a treacherous sonofabitch, and had worked hard to keep the man from gaining any real influence.

  He’d done this very carefully, however. The vice president was not oblivious to Moody’s ambitions. Any attempt to dislodge him would involve a serious fight. But it could be done. Moody was laying plans and gathering ammunition. Among other things, he had learned that the vice president’s holdings—though placed in an inaccessible trust—included stock in a number of public utilities that still used dirty midwestern coal as well as nuclear power, both of which would be severely limited by the domestic legislation that was to follow ratification of the Earth Treaty, presuming the legislation was enacted.

  The vice president had also been a good friend of Majority Leader Reidy. He’d turned on Reidy in the primaries, but they could find common cause again, especially if Reidy saw the vice president as an instrument of revenge. Many in the press were already writing that a challenge to the president was possible from within his own Democratic party if the new environmental laws proved as unpopular as some expected. The country was still recovering from a very long and deep recession.

  And then there was the matter of the vice president’s girlfriend—a sweet little blonde from Cleveland who worked as social secretary to the vice president’s wife. The president, in his pained way, might countenance an indiscretion or two, but not a full-time mistress—especially one on the public payroll.

  Moody had engaged in more than one or two indiscretions, but had been damned careful about them. He’d never kept a mistress, except for a few months with Deena when he was still married to his ex-wife. He’d never ever messed with any of the women on his staff.

  His biggest problem, he knew, was his friendship with Bernie Bloch, but he’d severed all his business ties with the man long before he’d joined the president’s team. His money now was all in government bonds and real estate—housing developments, hotels, and office buildings. He was probably the cleanest person in the administration, except for Sadinauskas and the former nun who was secretary of education.

  As a man from the hollows, Moody knew a lot about the creatures of the wild. He knew about rattlesnakes, and their practice of coiling together in a heap for warmth as they hibernated through the winter. It was one of nature’s more diabolical methods of keeping down the population of these predators. The first one or two snakes to awaken in the spring ate all the others.

  The president might run for a second term, or not; replace his running mate, or not. Choose an eventual successor, or not. Whatever happened, Moody was going to be one wide-awake rattlesnake.

  “Well, then,” said the president. “A most inspiring and promising morning. Thank you all, and God bless.”

  Returning to his office, Moody wasted no time getting the Japanese embassy on the line. Despite the urgency of his earlier calls, the ambassador was now “unavailable.” Moody settled for the deputy chief of mission, who spoke English so inscrutably that Moody wondered if the man quite realized who he was. He made that blisteringly clear, and left the fellow with a short, terse message. If the ambassador wished to speak to him, he would make himself available, in his office at the White House, in one hour. If the ambassador could not make that appointment, well, it might be weeks before he would be available again. These were very busy times for the United States of America.

  Hanging up, he sat back and stared at the phone, feeling like a man who had just lighted a fuse. It detonated. The ambassador’s office called back within three minutes. He would meet with Moody when and where instructed.

  Moody ignored the rest of the messages on his desk, but decided to place one more call. He hadn’t lingered to talk to Senate Majority Leader Reidy at the Capitol, but phoned him now—on his private line. Reidy answered cheerfully enough, but, with a quick apology, put Moody on hold. Moody presumed he was being yanked around, but he didn’t care. He’d play the game. His secretary appeared in the doorway, mouthing that the president wanted to see him. Moody nodded, then waved her off. Finally, Reidy came back on.

  “Hello, Bobby. Having a nice day?”

  “I just wanted to offer my congratulations. It was a hell of a victory.”

  “Well, my congratulations to you, Governor. You boys sure knocked yourself out on this one. You deserve a nice long vacation.”

  “The hell we do. We’ve got to keep moving. How soon can we get a vote on the floor?”

  “I was just thinking about that.” Moody could hear him riff through some papers. “I don’t see any reason why we can’t call a vote the first week after Labor Day.”

  “Labor Day? The president wants to move now. Certainly by June 30. It was your idea to split up the package and move on the treaty fast. So move.”

  “Bobby, this is the United States Senate, not the Maryland legisl
ature. Everyone’s going to be looking for a way to vote both sides of this one. The Republicans’ll dream up every kind of weird amendment you ever heard of. Besides, we’ve got the budget resolution and the new arms control treaty to deal with. June 30. That’s crazy.”

  “All right, we’ll compromise. Take care of the budget. Take care of the ICBMs. Then keep them in their seats until they vote on the Earth Treaty.”

  “No recess?”

  “Not until there’s a vote. Maybe you could turn off the air conditioning.”

  “Ho, ho, ho.”

  “Move on it, Senator. We’re not fooling around.”

  “I can see that, Governor. All right. I’ll get it on the calendar. I don’t expect I’m going to be a very popular fellow.”

  “You’ll be popular with me. And the president.”

  “I just hope you get a whole heap of those Kennedy Center appointments to hand around.”

  Moody hadn’t yet told Deena he’d given hers to Senator Sorenson’s wife. One of the many messages on his desk was from Deena.

  “We’ve got whatever it’s going to take.”

  “Okay, Bobby. Nice talking to you.”

  “Always a pleasure, Senator.”

  Moody closed the door to the Oval Office behind him gently, then went to stand in front of his boss’s desk. The president was toying with a ship’s model he kept on his desk, a replica of a square-rigged brigantine that had done duty in the War of 1812. He flicked the tiny anchor with his finger, watching it swing to and fro on its little chain.

  “Sorry for the delay, sir,” Moody said. “I was talking to Reidy about the Earth Treaty. Keep them hustling up there.”

  “Indeed, indeed. I just wanted to ask you to join me at the press briefing. Help me deal with the questions.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, sir. I think you ought to cancel the briefing.”

  “Cancel it? We’ve just won a great victory.”

  “I know, sir. And you’re guaranteed two, three minutes on the evening news. Easy. But I don’t think a standup in the press room is what you need. You know what the press corps is like. A lot of those newsies are nothing more than professional cynics. You’ll get some softies, but there are some real hardasses out there, too. They’ll just whack away at you, try to diminish the success we had today, cast doubt on our chances before the full Senate. It won’t matter what answers you give them, not if they get enough nasty questions into their sound bites.”