Butterfly (73 page)

and dragged her toward where their car was parked.

“You’re hurting me!”

He walked close by her side, his fingers digging into her arm, forcing her to stumble

over the uneven ground. When they reached the BMW he pushed her against it and

reached into his pocket for the keys.

“I won’t get in,” she said.

“You wanted to go home, we’re going home. Get in!”

“No. I’ll get home by myself.”

“You can’t find your way around a supermarket by yourself.” He flung the door open.

“Now get in!”

Jessica fought back the tears that threatened to come. “I can get along by myself,” she

said in a tight voice. “I’m capable of doing a lot of things by myself, John.”

His voice was full of scorn, “Name one thing, besides demeaning yourself in a courtroom.”

The sound of her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Her mouth was so dry she was hav-

ing difficulty talking. “For one thing,” she said quietly, “I’m capable of going to bed with

another man.”

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He laughed contemptuously. “And when do you plan to do that?”

“I’ve already done it.”

His mouth lifted in a mocking smile. “Am I supposed to feel threatened?”

“In fact I went to bed with him twice.”

John’s eyes flickered. A small crack appeared in his façade. “Who?”

“I don’t know his name. He was a total stranger. I went to bed with a man I don’t even

know.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“And 1 paid him money for it!”

His hand flew out so quickly and he hit her across the face so hard that Jessica was

knocked off her feet. As she fell to the dirt both she and John were stunned.

Putting a hand on her cheek, she looked up at him and said, “I hope that made you

feel better.”

“You had it coming—” he began. He was shaking; his hands were fists at his sides.

Jessica pulled herself up and leaned against the car. “I concede your physical superior-

ity to me, John. You outweigh me by eighty pounds. If it makes you feel more like a man

to beat me up, then do it.”

He turned away, his eyes filled with pain and anger.

She waited for him to say something. Her cheek throbbed; her palms were scraped

and stinging. She stared at John’s rigid back, expecting him to speak, to make the next

move. But he stayed turned away from her, his gaze fixed on the rows and rows of cars

stretching away to the hills. A hot summer silence descended upon the scene. This area of

the parking lot had been filled early in the morning—there were no merry fairgoers pass-

ing among the cars; only flies and bees droned in the heat. In the distance, sounds from

the fair drifted up to the sunwashed sky.

Jessica waited.

Finally, taking in a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, John slammed the car door

shut, thrust the keys back into his pocket, said, “You can do whatever you want. I don’t

give a damn,” and he walked away, back in the direction of the fair.

46

It was time to start the countdown. With the California primary only four days away,

and the Republican Convention just one week after that, the hour had come for Beverly

Highland to put the final phase of her plan into motion. This was the moment she had

spent thirty-five years working toward.

The destruction of Danny Mackay.

She hadn’t slept for the past few nights, and now she paced the carpet of her imposing

library, frequently glancing at her watch and listening for the front-door chimes. She had

actually begun the preliminary work two weeks ago, after her return from San Francisco.

Beverly had given Maggie and Carmen their instructions, and had sent Jonas Buchanan

to Texas. In the ensuing days they had reported their progress to her, and now, on this last

sunny morning of May, they were going to gather in this silent house for their final secret

meeting.

Beverly felt charged. Her body was electrified—with passion, with excitement, and

with fear. It
had
to work. The revenge she had sworn against Danny thirty-five years ago

had
to be a success.

Ghosts paced the Persian carpet with her: the tortured spirit of her mother, driven to

murder, who had found a haven at last in Reverend Mary Drake’s home; the soft and ten-

der little specter of the unborn, unformed baby that Danny had made Rachel give up;

and finally a phantom named Christine Singleton, Beverly’s twin sister whose trail ended

mysteriously in Saudi Arabia and whom Jonas Buchanan had, ultimately, not been able to

find. And finally there was the ghost of Maggie’s dead Joe and the unhappy spirits of peo-

ple whom Danny had ruined. It was for them, and for the safety of everyone else, that

Beverly was now going to set the final machinery into motion.

The chimes sounded, and the maid opened the library door for Carmen. For a

moment she and Beverly stared at each other across the enormous room, two women

standing among walls of leather-bound books with sunshine streaming through the dia-

mond-paned windows, illuminating the red, gold, and black intricacies of the carpet.

Carmen seemed to hold her breath for a second, then she said, “It’s done…”

Beverly turned away, her hands tightly clasped. So…it had already begun.

There was no turning back now.

“I went to the Century Plaza,” Carmen said quietly. “Danny will be checking in day

after tomorrow. He’s reserved two suites and six rooms. His wife will be with him.”

Beverly’s back was straight and rigid as she gazed out at the giant tree ferns framing a

window. Beyond them, golden marigolds and red roses made a paradise of her garden. A

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Kathryn Harvey

Chinese vase on her ornate mahogany desk held freshly cut butterfly lilies. They were so

fragile that their blossoms lasted only a day.

Beverly had not seen Danny since the night of the banquet in San Francisco. She had

not seen him, in fact, after the brief, dizzying moment when she had shared the dais and

spotlight with him. She had looked at the gold religious medallion he had presented to

her, then she had quietly thanked him and returned to her table. She had successfully

avoided his company after that, leaving as soon as the banquet was over and hurrying

away. But since that night her name had been linked with his. Just as she had planned.

“When will the Los Angeles
Times
receive the package?” she asked softly.

“Three days from now. That will get everything started.”

“Did you take care of things at Butterfly?”

“Everything is ready, Bev.”

“Fred Banks?”

“Jonas has left for Mexico. He’ll be helping Fred with his statement to the press.”

“What about Ann?”

“Maggie has gone to get her. They should be here soon. When will Bob arrive?”

“He telephoned from Dallas this morning. He should be getting into LAX any minute

now.”

“Was he successful?”

Dear God,
Beverly thought. “Yes,” she said. “He was successful.”

Beverly turned around. “Do you remember, Carmen? Do you remember my first

night at Hazel’s and how you took care of me?”

“And the night you took care of me, when I tried to commit suicide. And how you

taught me to dream.” Carmen came up to her and said, “These things will never be for-

gotten,
amiga.
We have traveled a long road, you and I.”

“Yes.”

“And the end is almost here.”

Beverly closed her eyes.
The end…
.

The chimes sounded again and Maggie came into the library with a perplexed-looking

Ann.

“Beverly,” she said, “what’s this all about? Maggie just told me you’re closing Butterfly

down. Why?”

Beverly looked at Carmen and Maggie, then she walked up to Ann and said, “Take a

walk in the garden with me. I have something to tell you.”

Bob Manning said a hasty good-bye to the pilot of Beverly’s private jet and hurried

into the waiting Rolls. “Take me straight to Miss Highland’s home, please,” he said to the

chauffeur, and clutched his briefcase tightly to himself.

His heart was thumping. He was scared, he was excited, he was just plain nervous as

hell. He felt as if he were carrying a ticking time bomb in the leather case.
Hurry,
he men-

tally urged the driver.
Hurry, hurry…
.

*

*

*

BUTTERFLY

323

They stood in an arbor of breathtaking bougainvillea named, ironically, Texas Dawn.

Its silvery lavender petals fluttered down on the heads of the two women as Ann, her face

slightly pale, said, “My God, Beverly.”

“I’m sorry to have to drop it on you like this. There was no other way.”

“You know,” Ann said as they turned and started walking back toward the house, “I’ve

suspected something for a long time. I had a feeling that you and Carmen and Maggie

shared a secret. Beverly, you could have told me! You know you can trust me! We’ve

known each other for thirty years.”

“It wasn’t a matter of trust, Ann. It was, well—very personal. But now you have a

right to know because of what is going to happen in the next few days, and you need to

be prepared.”

Ann gazed down at the flagstones she and Beverly followed. It was all so overwhelm-

ing—the strange and sordid tale of a runaway girl back in Texas, her transformation in

Hollywood, the surgery, the change of name, and the subsequent years of plotting revenge

against the man who had done it to her. Ann knew it would take a while for her to adjust

to it, to Beverly’s past and to what Beverly was about to do. But Ann would keep those

secrets safe. Beverly was the only true friend she had had all these years, a woman who had

made a certain Christmas dance the highlight of an unhappy girl’s life, and who had

included her in a spectacular rise to fame and fortune. For Beverly, Ann Hastings would

do anything.

“I’ll talk to Roy,” she said as they neared the house. “He’ll understand. He’ll keep your

secret safe. Roy owes you as much as I do, Bev. No one will ever know the truth about

Butterfly.”

They found a very agitated Bob Manning in the library, showing the contents of his

briefcase to Maggie and Carmen. When he turned and saw Beverly come in, he said, “You

won’t believe what I’ve brought back—” He stopped when he saw Ann also come in.

“It’s all right, Bob,” Beverly said. “I’ve told Ann everything. You can speak freely in

front of her.”

He handed the briefcase to Beverly. “It’s all here. And more.”

“Let’s get started,” Beverly said.

June

47

The headline on the morning after the voting read: MACKAY WINS CALIFORNIA PRIMARY.

The accompanying article on page one described the sweeping but, at this late stage,

rather expected victory of Reverend Danny Mackay over his Republican opponents in

this “kingmaker” primary. Having won all the California delegates, these being more del-

egates than any other state had, the founder of Good News Ministries was now just eighty

votes shy of getting the presidential nomination. Experts were predicting that he would

have no trouble in getting the “swing” votes at the convention, which was six days away.

The text included a photograph of a smiling Danny, the trademark Stetson on his head.

Parties were going on around the clock at the Century Plaza Hotel, his temporary Los

Angeles residence.

Quite a different and very unexpected headline appeared, however, on the next day’s