Mortal Faults

28

Reynolds awoke in darkness, which resolved itself into the office at his home. Vaguely he was surprised to find himself there. Then he remembered the time he’d spent with Rebecca, and how he’d left her curled on the floor and shaking, her midsection and thighs and upper arms purple with bruises. Having released his frustration, he’d felt calm, almost sleepy, as he drove home. He hadn’t bothered going upstairs. He had retreated into his office for another Scotch, consumed it in the dark, and nodded off behind his desk.

The luminous clock at his desk read 3:13 a.m. And a phone was ringing.

His cell. He’d flung it into a corner after hearing from Shanker.

Maybe Shanker was calling back. Maybe he’d found a way to get the job done, after all.

He left his chair and searched the darkness until he retrieved the phone, then pressed TALK.

“Yeah?” he said, hearing both anger and desperate optimism in his voice.

“How’s it hanging, Jack?”

It wasn’t Shanker. It was Abby Sinclair.

He blinked. “Do you know what time it is?” The question was absurd-of course she knew-but it was the only thing he could think of to say.

“It’s coming up on three fifteen. Gee, I really hope I didn’t wake you.”

“What the fuck do you want?”

“To do you a favor. Well, not so much a favor as an act of reciprocal generosity. The old mutual back scratching, first popularized by our primate ancestors.”

There was something funny about her voice. She was speaking too fast, her words racing, her voice jumpy. Like she was on drugs or something. Or rattled, maybe.

Yes. He thought that was it.

Sinclair was scared.

“You’re not making much sense,” he said quietly, allowing all emotion to drain from his voice, setting his composure as a contrast to her panic.

“Sorry. Sometimes I start communicating in my own private language, you know. Like James Joyce, only without the artistry. Or the accent.”

“What are you driving at?”

“What I’m driving, Jack, is a bargain. A hard bargain, but one that will be beneficial to us both.”

“Go on.”

“Not over the phone. Some things need to be discussed face to face. I want a meeting. Tomorrow. You can fit me into your schedule, I’m sure. Get Moneypenny to arrange it. You know, your standoffish secretary.”

“She’s not my secretary. She’s my constituent services coordinator.”

“Well, I’m not a constituent, but I can do you a service-in exchange for certain considerations.”

“There’s nothing you can do for me.”

“Wrong-o, Jacko. I can do plenty. Are you going to meet with me or not?”

“We can meet privately in the morning-”

“Privacy isn’t what I had in mind. No offense, Congressman, but I trust you about as much as-well, as any other politician. Especially after that stunt you pulled a few hours ago. You know, the jackbooted thugs goose-stepping through Andrea’s bungalow like it was Poland circa 1936.”

“1939,” Reynolds corrected automatically.

“Point is, I know what you’re capable of.”

He doubted that. He really did.

Of course he wasn’t surprised that she’d heard about the attack on Andrea’s house. It had been a top news story. And she wouldn’t have needed much imagination to peg him as the one responsible.

But something more than that must have happened. Something that was testing the limits of her self-control.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Miss Sinclair?” he asked.

“No. I’m not all right. I am, in the words of a recent acquaintance of mine, screwed, blued, and tattooed. I’m in a jam. It’s only going to get worse. But you’re going to help me out of it.”

“What kind of jam?”

“The kind I could go to jail for. Which is all you’re going to hear about it, because it’s irrelevant. What’s relevant is that I can solve your problems along with my own.”

“And how can we do that?”

“Are we going to meet or not? I want people around. I want a crowd.”

“I’m hosting a barbecue at my house for some of my more well-heeled constituents. It starts at noon. There should be at least two hundred guests. Is that enough of a crowd for you?”

“It’ll do.”

“Good. I’ll have my campaign manager, Mr. Stenzel, put you on the guest list.”

“Not under my real name. Any media going to be there?”

“One or two stringers, maybe.”

“Have him put me on the media list under the name Wanda Klein. I’m with, uh, Gold Coast Magazine.”

“You’ll need a press pass to get by security.”

“That’s not problem.”

“You still haven’t told me how you can help me.”

“Haven’t I?” He heard her draw a deep, frightened breath. “Okay, then, Jack. How’s this? I can give you Andrea Lowry. I can deliver her right into your hands.”

Click, and the call was over.

Reynolds stared into the darkness. Then slowly he began to laugh.