Drummer In the Dark (3 page)

“Ma’am? Excuse me, is this your car?”

She blinked in confusion at the valet standing by the Camaro’s open door. Jackie handed him a bill without even checking the denomination and slipped behind the wheel. Then she read the figure typed onto the contract’s payment line a second time. She looked up at the valet who was waiting to shut her door, and declared, “This can’t be right.”

2

Wednesday

N
EWLY ELECTED United States Congressman Wynn Bryant checked his watch. In precisely nine minutes he would be back inside the longest day of his entire life. And it was scarcely one in the afternoon.

Scattered across his desk were the remnants of a sandwich his secretary had brought up, and position papers on fourteen urgent matters that yesterday he had not even known existed. He licked the mayonnaise from his fingers and sifted through the seven he had not yet read. The previous weeks had been a whirlwind of cameras and meetings and people and chatter. Wynn had clocked over three thousand miles and never left the district, always accompanied by a party staffer. Election day had found him too numb to care, even when the local press had declared him just another of the governor’s lackeys with their interchangeable names.

After meeting yesterday with his regional office staff back in Melbourne, Wynn had caught the last flight to National and gone straight to the Willard—according to his travel agent, the best hotel within walking distance of Capitol Hill. It was a grand old place, full of Federalist grace and lofty heights and gilt. As good a place as any to call home for a while.

This morning, his entire Washington staff had been present to greet him. Everyone seemed highly intelligent, motivated, sharp, and far more aware of the business of politics than he would ever be. Even his secretary had a degree from Princeton. After a brief run-through of pending business, much of which Wynn had not understood, a staffer had walked him to the Capitol via the underground tunnel system. While inside the concrete maze, Wynn noted dozens of faces that had the vague familiarity of news flashes. All he could think was, sooner or later he was going to have to ask all nine staffers their names again. The aide had guided him into the House chamber, pointed him to Hutchings’ desk, wished him luck, and departed.

The swearing-in had proceeded swiftly. A few other members had stopped by his desk, shaken his hand, welcomed him to the club. That’s what they called it, or some did. The club. They had all seemed impossibly at home with the place and the proceedings. One had even mentioned how his own desk had once belonged to Samuel Adams. Wynn had seen little beyond the pomp and circumstance and the sea of faces in the visitors’ galleries. He sat and let the process wash over him for an hour or so, then rose to his feet, exchanged nods with the Speaker, and returned to his office overland. He doubted he could even find the tunnels, much less navigate them. Springtime in Washington meant tulips and cherry blossoms, mint-green trees and wind too cold for a supposedly southern city. The flowers were obviously for the tourists. No one else paid them any attention.

He had arrived in his third-floor office to the sound of ringing phones. They never seemed to stop. He had taken nine calls back to back, the last from the state secretary of commerce with regard to an upcoming bill. Wynn had duly taken notes and then lost the page. These had been followed by two subcommittee meetings. Thankfully, nobody seemed to expect him to do more than show up, look through his papers, and shake a few hands. He had returned to his office and demanded time for a solitary lunch. His chief of staff had immediately brought in the stack of position papers for him to peruse. A little light reading to go with his chicken Caesar roll.

Two minutes.

His suite of offices were quietly efficient and never silent. C-Span crooned the political equivalent of Muzak, a constant background drone. The outer office was tightly involved in work he did not know enough to question. Perhaps it was just their way of welcoming him, everyone occupied with something critically important. But Wynn didn’t think so. Their message seemed clear enough; he was an interchangeable cog. No matter who sat in his high-backed leather seat, the business of power would keep rolling along.

Tension hummed in time to the overhead fluorescents. The office furniture was a hodgepodge of styles and decades. His secretary possessed a tiny alcove behind the reception counter. His chief of staff, a singularly unattractive man with the Florida cracker name of Carter Styles, had the only other private office, attached to the back of the reception area and possessing a much-envied dirty window. The suite’s other room contained five cramped staffers.

Wynn’s own office was comparatively luxurious. It boasted a rich blue carpet, two paneled walls, built-in glass-fronted display cases, and a less shopworn desk. A burnished state seal hung over the doorway. State and national flags stood to either side of the big windows behind him. From a collection of photographs on the trophy wall, Hutchings brooded worriedly over the governor’s choice of replacement.

Wynn was examining Hutchings’ expression when the phone rang. He glanced at his watch. Right on time. He saluted the former congressman with the receiver and announced for himself alone, Guilty as charged. “Yes?”

“Jackson Taylor is on line three.”

“Who?”

An incredulous pause. “Mr. Taylor, Congressman. Chairman of the party.”

“Oh. Right.” No doubt this would become another tidbit to pass around the office. Further evidence of his utter ignorance. “Fine.”

“And Senator Trilling’s office called again. The third time today. They say it is imperative that you spare the senator fifteen minutes.”

“Can I fit it in?”

This was clearly a more appropriate question. “There are no votes scheduled for this afternoon’s session, Congressman.”

“Book it.” He glanced at the pile of embossed cards by his phone. “Are all these invitations for me?”

“Yes sir.” A slight lilt came to her voice. “Apparently word is out about your arrival.”

The pile was a half-inch thick, the engraving expensive, the titles and the places awesome. “Anything I should pay particular attention to here?”

“The one on top is a reception tonight. To greet the new British ambassador.”

Certainly better than returning to his empty hotel rooms. “Would you call and say I’ll be there?”

“Yes sir. And the White House just called. They ask if you could please stop by today at four.”

“Does this happen every day?”

“Sir?”

“Never mind. Line three, did you say?” He punched the button before she could respond. “Bryant.”

“Wynn Bryant, as I live and breathe. You probably don’t remember me. I’ll bet a boatload of tarpon you don’t have the first tiny idea who you’re talking to.”

“The only Jackson Taylor I know couldn’t have caught a tarpon with a stick of dynamite and radar. If that Jackson Taylor has landed this job, then it’s time I packed up and went home.”

“No you don’t, son. No you don’t. We need you too much up here.” A professional’s voice, polished as a putting green. “Can you spare me ten minutes?”

“You got it.”

“Have your people point you down here, but leave the dogs at home. Time for a little one-on-one.”

P
ARTY HEADQUARTERS held an intensity similar to his own office, the staffers hustling about putting out their own five-alarm fires. Wynn gave his name and was ushered into the chairman’s outer office. He’d scarcely had time to seat himself before a familiar voice said, “Wynn Bryant. I swear, politics makes for some strange bedfellows, don’t she?”

Jackson Taylor approached with hand so outstretched the fingers looked splayed backward. “When I heard Grant was putting you up for the job, my first thought was, whoa, don’t know if I’ve got it in me to go another fifteen rounds against this man.” He swallowed Wynn’s hand in a beefy grip. Up close Taylor smelled of some expensive fragrance and shone with a dedicated golfer’s tan. “Then I recollected the face and the stories and I thought, shoot, Grant’s done caught himself a winner here.”

Taylor turned to include the pair of people emerging from his office, an elegant older gentleman and a young aide. “Last time I saw this man, he was walking off with fifty-eight and three-quarter million of my dollars.”

“You got off light,” Wynn said, unable to hide the remembered burn. “The judge was going to cook you.”

To the elegant man in the doorway, Taylor went on, “Little bitsy company down Orlando way, first thing I ever heard of them was how they were busy suing us in federal court. Old Wynn here claimed we’d been engaging in unfair competition.”

“Which you had.” Bribery and commercial extortion to prevent their clients from using Wynn’s newer products, not to mention encroaching on Wynn’s patents. Wynn’s company had been bought out as part of the settlement.

“Water under the dam, old son.” Jackson Taylor gripped Wynn’s arm, giving him a power massage. “You got rich in the process, am I right or am I right.”

“Didn’t get a nickel that wasn’t ours.”

The older gentleman spoke with the bored nasal twang of old New England money. “Sounds like you two have a number of old battles to discuss, Jackson.”

“No time for that. We got too many wars in the right here and right now. Don’t we, Wynn.”

“We’ll leave you to it, then.” The gentleman started forward, trailed by his aide. “Good to see you again, Jackson. Congressman.”

“Appreciate the check, John. You don’t know how much it means, counting on people like you in our hour of dire need.”

Wynn watched Taylor give the gentleman a two-handed farewell, then allowed himself to be ushered inside. To his left was the most amazing power wall Wynn had ever seen. There must have been a hundred photographs, including five different presidents. “I think some of those people are dead.”

“Don’t let on.” Taylor motioned him into a chair. “You take coffee?”

“I’m fine, thanks.” To his right, a trophy case held every party memorabilia known to man, most of it gilded. On its top, a full-winged eagle came in for a sterling silver landing. “This is some place you’ve got here.”

“Yeah, it’s all Washington.” Jackson Taylor had formerly been CEO of a Fortune Twenty company, one division of which had been the largest competitor of Wynn’s own firm. “How about this now. The two of us sitting here, talking like two old buddies ready to take on the world.”

“Never thought it would happen,” Wynn agreed. “None of it.”

Taylor leaned forward. “We are allies, aren’t we, old son?”

Wynn found more warmth in the gaze of the deer mounted on Jackson’s wall. “Like you said, Jackson, I got rich off the battle.”

“There you go then.” He leaned back, satisfied. “My secretary’s made you a list of critical issues coming up. And some related files. You want me to messenger them over?”

“Sure. Don’t know when I’m going to read them, though.”

“Yeah, this place will bury you in paper if you let it. Have your staffers give them a look-see, hit the high spots for you.” The smile resurfaced. “Talked with the boys. Wanted you to know we’re ready to bankroll your next election.”

“I’m just a caretaker, Jackson. In and out in eighteen months.”

The grin broadened, creasing the tanned skin around his dead eyes. “Give the town a few weeks. This kind of power has an infectious quality. Besides, you’re our kind of man.”

“What kind is that?”

“A fighter and a winner. I’ve heard how you handled yourself through the election, tossed in the deep end and swimming hard. I’ve seen enough to know you’re a natural for politics.”

“Is that what you wanted to meet with me about?”

“Partly. Mostly I wanted a little face-time, find out how we’re going to get on.” The eyes tried for warmth. “I think we’re gonna do just fine, don’t you?”

“Swell.” Wynn started to rise. “Thanks for having me over, Jackson.”

“Don’t mention it.” The chairman rose with him. “Tell me something, Wynn. You got any plans for the Jubilee Amendment?”

“All I know is, Grant wants to see it killed.”

“Not just Grant, old son. Not by a long shot.” He offered his hand. “That mean you’re going to vote it down?”

Wynn accepted the meaty handshake, spoke carefully. “The governor stressed to me how important it was to have this item killed.”

“Stomp down with both feet, bury this snake in the dust.” He guided Wynn toward the door, massaging his hand so hard the bones ground together. “Any plans for housecleaning in your office?”

Wynn broke the grip with a downward shove. “I just got here, Jackson. Give me a break.”

“A word to the wise. Nobody around here’d be sorry to see Carter Styles sent packing. The guy was a buddy of Hutchings from back home, and he’s been a mistake from the start. One businessman to another, Carter is a liability you don’t need. He’s offended too many people, and for no good reason.”

3

Wednesday

W
EDNESDAY MORNING Jackie sipped tea from a mock Ball jar, the kind with a handle. The clear glass revealed a wildflower yellow too beautiful to hide inside a mug. She had been up long enough for any more coffee to be offensive, but she was no closer to answers. She stepped out her front door and reveled in a wind strong enough to shove her around. Her garage apartment was surrounded by Florida oaks now turned cross and agitated. She took a deep breath and tasted a faint trace of something found only within sea-laden storms. Jackie liked to think it was a remembrance of liberation and times that still lay easy on her soul.

She was drawn back inside by a ringing phone. It was Neva, the closest thing she had to a friend at work. “I must have tried to reach you a dozen times yesterday. Me and the boss both. Your phone stayed busy the whole time.”

“Sorry, I was on the internet.” Hooked into the web, searching for clues. This after spending most of the previous night going through the information Esther Hutchings had given her. The preliminary review had been sketchy but compelling. As a member of Congress, Graham Hutchings had made numerous inquiries into the uncontrolled and increasingly rampant activities of the international currency traders and hedge funds—the subject of Jackie’s unfinished thesis. Hutchings had documented occasions when the funds had wreaked havoc with national economies. He specifically named several huge funds that had played these currencies like chips on a roulette table. The list of investment banks and hedge funds was almost smothered in hand-written notes, but the top name made Jackie’s blood run cold. Hayek.

She had then gone on-line and searched out data on specific activities. She had not been looking for answers so much as keeping her hands busy while her mind tried to fit itself around this new juncture in her life. She used several search engines, their names springing up from the past, painful as splinters to her heart. All the work she had put into her own research, all the hopes, all the despair at having to push it aside when Preston became ill and the money ran out.

The final site she stumbled upon had been locked behind e-barriers, requiring her first to request entry and then download a questionnaire. The queries had reflected a group who were either very serious or seriously frightened. Her last act before logging off at one o’clock in the morning had been to send a preliminary response, introducing herself.

“I should have called in,” Jackie told Neva. “But to be honest, I didn’t know what to tell you.”

This was not Neva’s problem. “You better have a serious case of the never-get-overs, girl. Else I’m supposed to ask where you want us to mail your final check.”

“I’ve been offered another job.”

Neva brightened. “Always said you were too good for this grind. Doing what?”

“Investigation.”

“You got your license and you didn’t tell me?”

“I don’t need it for this.”

“So tell.”

“I’m being offered a ton of money by some rich old lady. She’s given me this fancy contract, calls me an independent consultant. Wants me to check out something related to my studies.” Neva was the only person at work who knew the whole tale of Jackie’s former life, and about her brother. Not to mention about her ex-fiancé, Shane, the ultimate destroyer of dreams. “I wish I knew what to do.”

“Wait, let me work on this a minute. Somebody’s come by, offered you a job that’ll get you out of this hole, and says they’ll pay you a heap of cash. And you’ve spent all day hanging in between?” She gave Jackie a chance to come back, then said, “What am I missing from this picture?”

“Come on, Neva. How often do things like this happen without a serious catch?”

“All the time, girl.”

“Not to me. This looks like just another chance for life to stab me with what I see but can’t ever have.”

“So you’re turning it down?”

Jackie wanted desperately to return to the safety of aiming low. But she was bored to tears with life and aching for change. She had not realized how much until the sleepless hours before dawn, lying there with the darkness illuminated by her fears. “You know what my problem is? I want things too much. All it takes is a tiny glimpse of everything I’ve never had, and I go up in flames.”

“What kind of answer is that?”

She was saved from further confessions by a knock on her door. “Hang on a second.” She set down her phone and walked over to where a UPS delivery man stood outside her screen door. “Can I help you?”

“You can if you’re Ms. Havilland.” When he held up his packet she realized it was ringing. “It’s been doing this for the past thirty minutes. Maybe it’s a bomb.”

“Right.” She unlatched the door, signed his electronic clipboard, and accepted the package. “Rid the world of a pair who really matter.”

She ripped the pull-tag, reached inside, came up with an ultraslim cellphone. She pushed the button and raised it to her ear. “Hello?”

It was the frosty matriarch from Boca Raton. “Where are you?”

“Standing in my doorway, staring at a delivery man’s dental work.”

“They promised delivery at nine. It’s almost half past. If I pay for a service I expect precision.”

“We run on Florida time down here. That’s something all the money in the world can’t change. Hold on just a moment.” She walked back over to her other phone and told Neva, “I have to go.”

“Tell you what. I’ll speak with the man, remind him of how you walk on water round here. See if maybe he’ll give you enough time to check this thing out.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Just go find some good luck for both of us. And keep in touch, you hear?”

She set down one phone, picked up the other. Cradled it a moment. Wishing for more clarity than the day offered. Beyond her front window the trees rocked and shuddered beneath a steadily growing wind. “All right.”

“I tried all yesterday to reach you.”

“My place only has one line. I’ve been on it trying to research your problem.”

“There’s a sealed envelope in this packet. Open it, please.” As Jackie tore open the envelope, Esther went on, “Your first payment, as promised.”

So much money. The slip of paper should have weighed a ton, pulled earthward by the ballast of temptation. “Why pluck me out of the unknown?”

“Your questions are becoming repetitive, Ms. Havilland. I wish to hire someone who will remain utterly bought and utterly secret. Have you signed the contract?”

“Not yet.”

“Time is of critical importance here.”

“I’ll decide today.”

“Very well. There is a handwritten slip in the envelope.”

“I have it.” A foreign sounding name and a number. Washington area code.

“A second contact, in case I can’t be found. To be used only for matters of critical urgency.” A pause, then, “I suggest you move on this while you still can.”

Jackie dithered for a time, cleaning her cramped three rooms while struggling with an already tumultuous day. Her garage apartment was carpeted in a ferocious orange shag. The wall air-conditioning units banged and wheezed, the plumbing clattered, and her refrigerator belonged in a museum. But her tiny back porch was a roofline haven, as far from her dead-end world as she nowadays expected to travel. She moved back to her dinette table, its scarred surface lost beneath the Hutchings papers. But she had no stomach for further work, not with the go/no-go decision swinging like a pendulum blade. Her eye was caught by a printout she had made the previous evening. The region’s loose-knit clan of wind surfers had circulated a map of the present storm with a time and place to meet. Jackie rose from the table and dressed for a day that might have some meaning after all.

T
AKING THE BEELINE EXPRESSWAY from Orlando to the coast, Jackie crossed I-95 and the bridges splitting the Florida mainland from Merritt Island, then pulled onto a tiny spit of sand and saw grass. A half-mile across the northern waters, cruise liners rose from Port Canaveral like clownish mountains. Beyond them, a shuttle had been pulled from Kennedy’s Vehicular Assembly Building and was settled onto the launch gantry nearest the Intracoastal Waterway. The shuttle’s stubby wings stood in resolute serenity, ready to defy all the elements and arguments as to why it could never fly.

As she unloaded her gear, a cluster of storm jumpers pushed shouts and invitations her way. Jackie knew all their first names, but few details more beyond cars and boards. The pirates among them had hit on her once or twice, then accepted her turndowns with buccaneer grins and the shrugs of those with more chances than time. She was respected because she came for most of the heavy blows and handled herself with the fanaticism of one who lived for such events. Jackie waved at the group but did not approach. Today was not one for their clubby atmosphere and single-minded tales of flight. She wanted nothing more than abandon.

She rigged her sail, tied the boom storm-taut, and stepped her mast. She went back to the car for the storm harness, which she slung about her shoulders and cinched between her legs so that the hook dangled just below her rib cage. She drew her hair tightly into a band, pulled the daggerboard from her trunk, locked the car, and dragged the board across the shore.

Jackie smiled at the hoots from those already back and standing weary along the roadside, and pulled her board into the kicked-up bay. The water was warm as a brackish bath. Even at knee depth the wind pushed up sparkling froths, which her blood answered with an adrenaline champagne all its own. She slid the daggerboard home, hefted the boom, tested the fore foot strap. She took a couple of little ready-jumps, feeling the wind impatient to pluck her away. She gave all her weight to the boom and the board, then rose up so swiftly she had to shout, knowing it was a day of promise and speed. She slipped her back foot into place, felt the swooping rush, and gave into the only oblivion that had ever worked for her.

The board was no longer clunky and two generations out of date. It was a chariot pulled by spendrift stallions, and she a woman who knew no earthly bonds. She flew so fast the board scarcely touched the wave crests, her solitary wing searching for that last tiny thrust that would break her free entirely and send her shooting away from all the impossibles of a life she had been forced to call her own.

Mainland to her right and Merritt Island to her left, she accelerated until passing homes and stands of water-bound green all became shades of speed. She hooked the harness ring on to the boom and leaned farther back until her body was as billowed as the sail, two arcs joined by impossible balance. With each little wave jump she was drenched anew in water warmer than the wind. She felt her fingertips and the tip of her ponytail trace across the wave tops, and became more intimately connected still to her partner in this dance. From behind there came a hooted shout of approval. Glancing around, she saw an upside-down mate leaning upon his mast rope with one hand, trying to right himself from a spill, his other hand a fist over his head as he screamed to her an instant’s fame.

Downwind where the island ended and the water broadened, the waves became frothy sloping catapults. Jackie raised herself back up, unleashed the harness hook, and began steering with body movements and fractional adjustments of the sail. Her clenched fists searched through the boom for the faint quiver of coming gusts. She took the measure of each blow, reaching for the invisible fist. Abruptly a new feather of strength pressed against her sail and her cheek. She angled slightly east, aimed for the highest of the waves ahead, crouched further, timed the approach, then jumped and shouted with the effort. The wind joined with her own cry, shrieking up almost a full octave, willing her into the wild gray sky.

She flew. Time halted then. Her cry became a silver thread reaching out with the raucous force of a gull, weaving its way into the heart of the storm, a call of hope and thrill and pain. She willed the moment to go on forever, never to return her to a waterborne world. She splashed down in a hard landing, the sail dipping and drenching, which meant she had to sail on long enough to lose the water-weight before searching again. Then she found another invisible fist and aimed for the clouds and the universe of eternal storm.

Jackie flew as far as the next causeway, which meant a two-hour push tacking back upwind. The water was largely empty, save for a few other lightning-fast storm jumpers, several sailboats throwing heavy wakes and rigged for blow, and one motorboat. She circled back behind one of the uninhabited marsh islands and took shelter in a cove overhung by palmettos and wild palms. A trio of stalking herons watched from the white-sand beach, gray heads turned so they could all give her a resentful one-eyed glare. She lowered the sail to the water, seating herself so she could watch the waves be trimmed and topped by the blow. She dropped her eyes to her board, inspecting the frayed seams along the daggerboard and the rusty repair screws she had put in herself to reinforce the foot straps. The check on her dinette table represented the first money since her brother’s death not marked before it arrived for meeting the day-to-days. But in this haven of wind and light, she knew it was not the lack of answers that worried her. It was the fear of finding nothing more than another false freedom.

A pod of dolphins swam into the tiny cove. The surrounding green offered a sliver of calm water not more than fifteen feet wide. Breezes filtering through the mangrove and palmetto and silver palm sent tiny shivers across the sheltered waters, out to where the bay joined with a froth-covered sea. The dolphins lumped up and wheezed their gentle breaths, circling around two tiny fins that signaled the presence of babies. The bayside species was smaller than their ocean kin, and more comfortable with humankind. They nosed about, rubbing bellies upon the soft white bottom sand, whistling their shy chirrups, offering quick notes of water-borne inquiry. How was she? Confused, was the answer. Frightened by the prospect of waking up again. Awash in memories of former times.

There had indeed been other chances, given only to be stripped away. A father who let his wife drive him off, leaving little Jackie screaming for him to stay, or else take her with him. Those pleas had resulted in years of vicious torment from a hyperjealous mother who prized her wounds like medals. Jackie had survived by living to protect her little brother, a golden-haired seraph too sensitive for the best of this world, much less able to survive alone their mistake of a mom. Preston had prevailed because Jackie had sheltered and bolstered. He had never been one for people or words, but his mind had gobbled math the way another might devour mystery novels. In school he had thrived on calculus and uncertainty theory, subjects that left Jackie utterly cold.