Mortal Faults

31

“Where were you last night, Jack?”

Reynolds looked up from his morning coffee, which he had brewed at the unusually late hour of ten a.m. after a restless sleep, to see the unsmiling face of his wife.

“Went for a drive,” he said evenly.

“You go for a lot of drives.”

“It’s how I relax. You know that.”

“Yes. I know that. It’s what you’ve always told me.”

He didn’t answer. He was scanning the Orange County Register for news on the incident in San Fernando. He’d already checked the L.A. Times and found no new information, only a rehash of the details televised on the late local news.

The Register ’s story was given even less prominence, since the attack had taken place outside Orange County. The brief item appeared to be a patchwork of wire service reports augmented by a few local touches-chiefly references to the growing trend of home invasions in the region. There was nothing new.

“Why didn’t you come up to bed after your drive?”

He was surprised Nora was still in the room. He’d assumed she’d already left the breakfast nook. They never took their meals together anymore.

“I fell asleep in my office,” he said.

“Were you drinking?”

“I may have had a nip.”

“You’ve been taking your share of nips lately.”

“Campaign season. It’s tiring.”

“You know you’re a shoo-in to get reelected.”

“Still takes a lot out of me.”

“Yes, hours of schmoozing. I know how much of a strain that is on you.”

He disliked sarcasm. It implied that he was not being taken seriously. He put a sharper edge on his voice. “I guess it’s easy for you. That’s why you need your triple dose of Xanax to get through the day.”

“I’m not on Xanax anymore.”

“What is it now? Valium?”

“At least I have a prescription for what I take. I don’t think any doctor prescribes a pint of Scotch as a cure-all.”

“I could probably find one who would.”

He started to fold the paper, then noticed a last-minute item pasted in near the home invasion story. A member of the biker club known as the Scorpions had been found in his Santa Ana apartment, dead of “multiple gunshot wounds.” The man’s name was Dylan Garrick.

Reynolds didn’t know any Garrick. But then, he knew almost none of the younger Scorpions. His contacts were with the old guard, the men he’d known when they were boys growing up with him.

Interesting that a Scorpion would be killed on the night of the failed hit on Andrea. If Garrick had something to do with the hit, he might have been aced as a penalty for failure.

“You know, Jack, if you find campaigning so stressful, perhaps you should give it up.”

He was astonished that Nora was still present, still talking. This was turning into the lengthiest conversation he’d had with his wife in the past month.

“I’m not giving anything up,” he said with a prickle of rage. “I earned everything I’ve got, and I intend to keep it.”

“Even if it’s driving you to drink?”

He got up, leaving his coffee half finished. “You don’t understand me.”

“I suppose not.”

“Take your pills and get dressed. We have company coming.”

He walked out of the breakfast nook and climbed the spiral staircase to his bedroom, where he slipped off yesterday’s clothes, then showered and changed.

Give it up, she’d said. Give up his job, his position. Give up everything that made him who he was.

In a couple of hours he would have two hundred of Orange County’s wealthiest power brokers gathered in his backyard for hot dogs, burgers, and potato salad. They weren’t coming because they liked him. They were coming because they needed him. They needed his pull, his influence, his ability to do favors and cut through bureaucratic obstacles. Secretly they might despise him-most of them probably did-but they would show up anyway, wearing broad smiles and offering firm handshakes. They were his courtiers, fawning and kowtowing, laughing at his jokes, grateful for his hospitality, eager to please.

And Nora wanted him to abandon all this-and do what? Practice law? Sit on corporate board? Play golf and watch his life go by?

Never. He would never give it up. He would do whatever was necessary to preserve his place in the system. He’d proven it many times-most recently when he’d ordered the elimination of Andrea Lowry.

He would prove it again soon, when he met with Abby Sinclair.

His cell phone rang. He answered and heard Rebecca’s voice.

“I’m not coming to the barbecue, Jack.”

Both of the women in his life were giving him trouble today. “Why the hell not?”

“Because of what you did to me last night.”

He barely remembered doing anything. He’d driven to her place, had a little fun with her, worked out his aggressions. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m all bruised.”

“You know I like it rough.”

“Yes… I know what you like.” Her voice was a whisper. “This is different. I’m all bruised, Jack. I’m black and blue all over. You really hurt me.”

“How’s your face?”

“My face?”

“You know, the thing that looks back at you from the mirror. Any bruises there?”

“No.”

He always took care to avoid the face. “So what’s the problem? You know what they say, clothes cover a multitude of sins.”

“My arms and legs-”

“Wear long pants and a long-sleeved shirt.”

“It’s August. It’s eighty-five degrees outside.”

“So it’s eighty-five fucking degrees. Big deal. Break out your winter clothes.”

“It’s summer.”

“I fucking know it’s summer. People wear long sleeves in summer. No one is going to notice. Your problem is you think everybody’s focused on you. People don’t give a shit about anybody but themselves.”

“Jack, you left me on the floor. I could hardly move-”

“I had some issues that were eating at me. I got a little out of control. It won’t happen again.” This was as close to apologizing as he would come. Somewhere he had picked up the motto of tough old John Wayne, who had an airport in Orange County named after him. Never apologize and never explain; it’s a sign of weakness.

Rebecca’s voice hardened. “I’m not coming, Jack. I don’t want to see you today.”

“You don’t want to see me? The people at the barbecue are my constituents. They know you. They expect you to be here. And you will be here.”

“Tell them I came down with something. Goodbye, Jack.”

“You hang up the phone, and you’ll regret it.”

He said the words very softly, without melodrama, the way any serious threat should be delivered.

She stayed on the line. “I’m not coming,” she said again, but with less certainty.

“You’re going to put on your long-sleeved shirt and your long pants and whatever else you need to look pretty, and you’re going to be here with a smile on your face, telling my constituents how good it is to see them, and remembering all their names.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You think I hurt you last night. You don’t know what hurt is.”

Silence for a moment. “I’m not afraid of you,” she said finally.

“Yes, you are. Now get dressed and haul your ass over here. I haven’t got time for this bullshit. I have real problems to contend with.”

He ended to call and stuffed the phone into his pants pocket.

Bruises. Jesus.

So he’d gotten her a little marked up. It wasn’t like he’d broken any bones. Bruises would heal. In a few days, a week or two at most, she’d be wearing her summer clothes again.

Unless he decided to pound on her some more, teach her a lesson for her disloyalty, her lack of respect.

Maybe he would. But he had other lessons to teach first, starting with Andrea Lowry.

And after her, Abby Sinclair.