Wild Card

4

Stone found Craig another pair of sweatpants and tossed his bloody ones into the trash, while Major Bugg returned the medical kit to its home.

“You’re sure you don’t want to call the police?” Stone asked.

“Don’t even think about it,” Mick said. “Somebody at the police station will leak it to a reporter and by cocktail time it will be all over the news. You’ll have two dozen photographers crawling all over your estate trying to snap a photo of Craig Calvert’s ass. And we don’t want that, do we?”

“I don’t want Felicity to know, either,” Craig said.

“Where is she today?”

“At her office. She left early this morning.”

“Go back to her place, pack your bags, and leave her a note saying you’ve been called back to London for a script conference. Then come over here, and we’ll put you up for a few days. You’re not going to want to answer anybody’s questions about why you’re limping or sitting funny.”

“Stone is right,” Mick said. “If the insurance company hears that you’ve been shot, they’ll put you in hospital for a whole new physical. That, and the resulting publicity, will screw up the shooting schedule. It will also increase the insurance premium, and your producers won’t like that.”

“Thank you for the offer, Stone,” Craig said. “I accept. Let’s go pack, Mick.” He hobbled out of the house and, with Mick’s help, headed for the dock in the golf cart.

Stone told Major Bugg to have rooms prepared for Mr. Calvert and Mr. O’Leary — but not too close to his own. Then he went upstairs and found Jamie drying her hair.

“Well,” she said, “that was a long workout.”

“Shorter than planned,” Stone replied, “and you’re going to envy me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve spent the last half hour gazing at Craig Calvert’s bare ass.”

“You’re right, I envy you. How did he come to expose himself to you? I may want to try myself.”

“Someone took a shot at us when we were out running — at me, very probably — and Calvert’s ass got in the way. He’s moving in with us — rather, with me — for a few days while he heals up.”

“Where is he sleeping?”

“You don’t need to know. Let’s go down for some lunch.”

“Just a minute,” Jamie said, “did you say someone shot him?”

“It was only a flesh wound, as they say in the movies.”

“I take it that it wasn’t a passing hunter.”

“Craig’s ass does not resemble a grouse.”

“Are we in danger?” she asked.

“Isn’t that why we left the States?”

“It’s not why I left the States,” Jamie said.

“Well, you can add that to your list.” He hustled her to lunch.

They were having sandwiches in the kitchen when Dino called.

“Hey,” Stone said. “Are you on your way?”

“We’ll be there in the morning the day after tomorrow,” Dino replied.

“Good. We’ve had some action here. Is Viv listening in?”

“I am,” Viv said.

Stone told them what had happened. “Viv, will you call your London office and get some people down here?”

“Sure, they know the drill by now. So there’s going to be a movie star in the house?”

“I’m afraid so. I may have to sit on Jamie the whole time.”

“You may have to sit on me, too,” she replied. “That Calvert is a dish.”

“I’ll do whatever sitting on you is required,” Dino said.

“Call me on the satphone when you’re an hour out,” Stone said, “and I’ll have you met at the landing strip.”

“Okay,” Dino replied, then hung up.

Mick and Calvert came into the kitchen with their bags. Stone spoke to the cook about them. Calvert lowered himself gingerly into a padded chair and tried to get comfortable. “The lidocaine is wearing off,” he said.

“Anything I can do?” Jamie asked.

“Yes,” Stone replied, “go write another draft of your book.”

“You don’t want me near a computer,” she said. “I’m itching to write a story about what just happened to Craig.”

“Oh, Stone,” Calvert said, “I hope you don’t mind if my girlfriend joins us. She’s my leading lady, too, and bringing her down here is the only way I can keep her quiet.”

“We’d be delighted to have her,” Stone replied, and with real feeling.

Back in New York, Rance Damien entered the penthouse office of Henry Thomas, the patriarch of the Thomas family and the real power behind everything that happened at H. Thomas & Son.

Henry peered at him closely. “You almost look like yourself,” he said.

“They tell me I’ll need three or four more surgeries before that will happen,” Damien replied sourly.

“Are you ready to come back to work?”

“I’ve been back since early this morning,” he said.

“We’re going to have to turn our attention to Mr. Stone Barrington,” Henry said, “if we’re ever to have any peace.”

“I have already done so,” Damien replied. “I gave the orders last night, and a team was down at Barrington’s place early this morning, their time.”

“Did they get a shot at him?”

“Yes, but he was running with another man, and I’m not sure which one they hit. They got him back to the house, but they didn’t call the police or an ambulance.”

“That’s good news,” Henry said. “They may get another shot.”

“What do you want to tell Hank about this?” Damien asked. Hank Thomas was the old man’s grandson — formerly a congressman from New York and a candidate for the presidency, until his father’s suicide, after which he had returned to the family business to help out.

“You size him up, and we’ll decide how much he should be told. At some point, if he’s going to be here, he’ll have to know that he’s not in Washington anymore, but back in the real world.”

“I think Hank may work out,” Damien said. “He’s a gutsier guy than Jack was, and he’s always been a realist. He didn’t bat an eye last year when I told him that we were going to use our new computer installation to steal the money for his presidential campaign.”

“A man after my own heart,” Henry said, chuckling. “Are we going to rebuild the computer setup?”

“I don’t think so,” Damien said. “After the Times’s investigative campaign against us, the banking people will have completely gutted their security procedures and started over. It would be much, much harder to pull off another digital heist.”

“I want Hank to become the public face of the company now,” Henry said. “We’ve got four years to rebuild him as a serious presidential candidate, and you... Well, you know.”

Damien nodded. He knew he was no longer a pretty face — and he’d make Barrington pay for that.