The Test (16 page)

“You got me drugs?” Carla gasped, and yanked her hands behind her back. The bag fell to the floor. She pulled her legs up into her abdomen and pushed back into the plush padding of the sofa. She needed to disappear into some kind of safety zone. She needed the image of that bag to evaporate. But it didn't. Bunky picked it up and swung it in front of her face, taunting her, tantalizing her.

“Just for us. Just for today,” he was saying.

Carla straightened out, and struggled to sit up. Finally, words formed in her mind and she spat them out as vehemently as she could. “After the hell I went through getting clean! You're bringing me shit! Get rid of it! Get rid of it now!”

Bunky, still holding the bag, gently settled her back on the cushions, taking care the pillows in back of her were aligned. Carla felt her heart heaving, pounding so loud that Bunky must hear it too. She saw a bright white flash and instantaneously she knew that she wanted what was in that bag. Really wanted it. No, she
had to have
what was in that bag. Every nerve, every muscle in her body demanded it. She started to writhe.

“Bunky. Give it to me.” Her voice sounded like the growl of a dog.

“Hey, hold on, this isn't ordinary shit.” Bunky pulled the package just out of her reach. “This is ex—quisite.”

From somewhere in Carla's head came a contrary order. “You gotta flush it down the toilet.” After she'd uttered those words, her body started to shake. “Or you get the fuck out of here.”

Still dangling the bag out of her reach, Bunky drew Carla up against his chest and kissed her. Stroking her hair, he pressed her body close to him, murmuring into her ear. “Come on, babe. It's the Fourth of July, Independence Day, and we're gonna celebrate by getting fucked. Just this one time. Just to get through family day.”

Carla began to moan as she fell into the circle of Bunky's arms. He rocked her like a baby, reassuring her, “Without the shit, babe, we're gonna be too shaky. Face it, you want it, don't you, babe?”

Did she want it?
Yes. Yes. Yes
. Every pore in her body craved the cocaine high. When Bunky loosened his grasp on her, she felt she was having a convulsion. She wanted it so fucking bad. She
had
to have it.

He set the bag down momentarily to make her comfortable among the array of pillows. Her teeth chattered when he took the pipe from the bag. She went to reach for it, then pulled back her hand. And as Bunky took out the rocks, Carla fought to remember the Serenity Prayer. She tried to call up the moment in time, the breakthrough moment with her counselor, the exact moment she knew she had to stop. Stop or die, he'd said.

Bunky brought out the cigarette lighter. “Guy I got this from said this is the best, babe, a gift.”

Carla shrank back, leaned forward to grasp the pipe, then pushed back again. She needed to get the fuck out of here. She needed to take a hit. She couldn't move.

“No, Bunky, I can't. I promised . . . to . . . help . . . the children . . . I need to.”

“Trust me, babe, this is what you need.”

He offered her the pipe. Carla locked onto his eyes. “Trust me, babe,” he repeated.

She felt herself slipping away into a place so fragile that a whisper could knock her over. Even her heart beat seemed to falter as the last vestige of her resolve evaporated. She reached for the pipe and Bunky guided it toward her quivering mouth. She inhaled, deeply, greedily. The rush was immediate. She felt her heart flutter in that intense, immensely pleasurable way. Oh yes, she could get through this day. Face her family, Bunky by her side. She would be just fine.

Carla sank back into the comfort of the pillows, closed her eyes and floated. She felt a certain pounding sensation in her chest, but it dissipated as her mother appeared and started walking toward her. Mom's beautiful smile, warm, so inviting. And Daddy followed, looking proud, as he had that day when he had the front-row runway seat at her St. John's show.

Frank and Matt wore Uncle Sam costumes as they flipped burgers and roasted corn on the huge brick grill at poolside.

Matt grinned. “Must be doin' something right. Kids're all coming back for seconds. When do we get our chance to eat? I know you can't have the corn, but those cheeseburgers, no bun, are on that crazy low-carb diet.”

“Today we're here to serve, buddy.” Frank nudged Matt as Dan's pretty, dark-haired daughter headed toward them. “Carrie, give this young man some help while I get more corn.”

How strange, Frank thought. For twenty-two years, Carrie and Terry were off the family radar screen. Now here they were at the Fourth of July barbecue as competitors for Dad's money. But for today, he and Meredith had made a pact. No politics. No strategizing. Just the family patriarch putting on the perfect picnic. Scoring points.

Frank was surprised that he was having such a good time as master of the grill. There were moments when he even thought that maybe he didn't hate kids so much, until one of the Stevens twins plowed into him and the platter he was carrying crashed to the ground. Luckily, it was plastic and empty.

“Slow down, you guys,” he yelled.

“Sorry, Uncle Frank.” The guilty kid braked momentarily. At least the Stevens' kids were having a good time. Odd, after all those years resenting Rory, Frank's feelings were now mixed. Rory had been just a child when Dad married her mother, and he realized now that he had been a jealous teen with an attitude. He'd always blamed Dad for defiling the memory of his mother by marrying Vivian. But now, after hearing the story of Monica, Frank was beginning to appreciate how lonely his father must have been. Frank knew how much he depended on
Meredith. If anything happened to her, Frank concluded he
wouldn't
be able to go on.

“Elise,” he yelled at his daughter, “get your cousins and tell them to sit down.”

“Okay, Daddy,” she shouted. “Chip! Charlie! Misty!”

Elise was a good kid and Frank knew that he should start doing more with her. He'd promised Meredith that he would be a better father as soon as he got appropriations for Justice and Commerce though Congress. There was always something. Too many speeches. Too many fund-raisers. Too many political favors. As he headed for the house, Mr. M. met him with a cart of steaming, yellow ears of corn. “You wanta roll these in, Senator? I'm boiling more, so just send someone in if you run out again. I hope you know how wonderful it is to have all of you out here. Just wish Mrs. Stevens weren't so ill.”

“Senator!” Mrs. M.'s voice intruded, shrill and urgent. “Telephone, Senator Frank.”

“No business today,” Frank called back. “The Fourth of July. Government's not in session.”

But the ashen look on Mrs. M.'s face made Frank blink as she shoved the phone into his hand. “A detective. New York City. ‘Urgent,' she said.”

“For crying out loud,” Frank responded. “Okay, okay, if you take this corn over to Matt.”

“Frank Parnell here.” Not caring if he sounded annoyed.

“Senator Parnell?”

“Yes, what is it?” Some political disaster? Tomorrow was a big day. Mueller's nomination as Director of the FBI. Intelligence and Armed Services had Frank so steeped in terrorism that he feared the worst. But from a detective?

“This is Detective Francine Harris from the NYPD, sir. I'm at the Parnell apartment on Park Ave. I'm afraid I have some tragic news. It's your sister. Carla Parnell. She's dead, sir.”

The words hit like a blow to the stomach. Frank found that he couldn't breathe.

“Are you there, sir?” A sweet voice for an NYPD detective.

“No! I mean, yes. Carla? Dead?” Frank started to reached for the corn
cart next to him, but Mrs. M. had taken it away. He lurched, righted himself, and dropped the phone.

In slow motion he bent and picked up the instrument, amazed that it hadn't shattered on the brick path. “Senator, are you okay?”

“What happened?”

“Here's all we know. The housekeeper, Mrs. Waring, came back to check on your sister. Said she had a funny feeling. When she let herself in, she found Miss Parnell sprawled out on the sofa in the living room. She tried to shake her. Got no response. Called nine-one-one. When the paramedics arrived, they estimated that based on body temperature, Miss Parnell had been dead for at least an hour.”

Had Carla overdosed?
If so, it'd be imperative to keep it quiet. “Does anyone else know?”

“We called you first. We're still here at the scene. Does your sister have any illness which might explain—?”

“I don't know. How did she die? I mean, can you tell?”

“No evidence of foul play. Earlier in the day she'd had a visitor. A young man. Building security says he goes by the name Bunky. Real name, Rodney Lester.”

Oh, yes, the junkie who screwed her out of all her money. That ridiculous name. She'd wanted to bring him with her today.

“Bunky?” Frank was at a loss. The last thing he wanted was to raise any suspicions about drugs.

“We're trying to find him. Strange, his driver's license lists this address. Does he live here, Senator?”

“No. He most certainly does not live there. Detective Harris, this is all such a shock. We were expecting Carla here in Pennsylvania today. I was starting to get worried, but with holiday traffic—My God, I can't believe this. Of course, my wife and I will come to the city directly.”

“We won't know the cause of death until the autopsy. We'd like access to medical records.”

Frank did not respond. He couldn't let the police trace Carla to the Roberts Clinic.

“We'll take her to the city morgue. It's protocol.”

“Detective, I can't have my sister's body taken there.” Carla's modeling portfolio flashed through his mind—long blonde hair, incredible
violet eyes, a perfect, if too thin, body. “I want her taken to Cornell Medical. If that's a problem, have the commissioner call me.” Frank gave her his cell phone number. “I'll be there as soon as possible.”

What had happened? Frank needed Meredith to think this through. Shock and bitter anger intertwined in his heart. Carla had been such a cute little girl, but Dad and Vivian had spoiled her shamelessly. Now he was left to deal with the cover-up of her drug abuse. The political spin would be critical. The wrong spin could ruin his chances for the presidency, forever.
Paul Parnell's daughter, sister of Senator Frank Parnell, dies of a drug overdose
the headlines would scream. Frank remembered the Jeb Bush fiasco with his daughter. Together, he and Meredith needed to finesse their way out of this mess, create sympathy for the Parnell family.

Frank thought of the inheritance; now there would be one less contender. He put the shameful idea away and threaded his way across the pool deck where Meredith had been. Kids were all over the place. He had to swerve to avoid Monica and Patrick as they headed purposely toward him, hand in hand.

“Frank, do you think we can talk a little later, after the mob scene?” Monica called out.

“Not now,” he said. “Have you seen Meredith?”

“Is something wrong?” Monica asked, staring at Frank.

“No. I mean, yes.”

“Meredith is over there,” Patrick, said pointing to Rory's two oldest girls.

“Excuse me,” Frank mumbled as he rushed across the lawn to her. “Meredith, we have to talk. Not here.”

Frank led Meredith into the paneled library across from the formal living room. “What's going on?” she asked as he sank down into his father's favorite chair.

“Carla's dead.”

“What?” Meredith gasped, hand clutching her chest as she lowered herself onto the matching sofa. Frank explained the little he knew.

“Drugs,” she said.

“Same conclusion as mine.” Frank leaned forward in the chair, cradling his head in his hands.

“Okay,” Meredith began, “I'm trying to remember what I read getting
ready for that intervention. Crack cocaine is involved. Crack can damage the heart. Cause actual damage to the tissue and cause fatal arrhythmias. Okay, what do we know about arrhythmias?”

Frank shook his head.

“Electrolyte imbalance. Anorexia nervosa. Something about potassium, I don't know. Anyway, models and entertainers often suffer from eating disorders. They die from it. Yes, sudden cardiac death. Let's think this through. We've got to get this right.”

Then Frank knew what she meant and took solace. Her mind was so quick.

“We have to get to Manhattan. Quickly build medical consensus on cause of death. There can be no mention of her stay at Roberts or her drug abuse. We spin this as a rare, catastrophic medical event.”

“We're going to need political clout,” Frank said.

“And we have it,” Meredith said with determination. “For now we paint a picture of a model's preoccupation with weight. Carla was so very thin. Anorexia, an obsession with weight, is plausible. Focus on damage control. Brief Matt. Get our public relations people on it. Develop the medical talking points and stick with them.”

“Can Ashley help?” Frank wondered aloud.

“Maybe,” Meredith said, getting up. “She's a doctor. We'll need her on board to lend credibility.”

“What about Welton?” They were both standing now, and Frank felt a chill go down his spine, suddenly realizing that not a tear had been shed over his sister.

“We're stuck with him for now,” Meredith grimaced. “But I don't trust that creep for a nanosecond. But we have to get moving. What to do first?” She answered her own question. “Get Matt.”

“Should he stay here and keep things under control, or go into the city with us?” Frank asked.

“For now he should stay here,” Meredith decided. “We can't have any loose cannons going off.” Meredith paused and put her arms around Frank. “You know this will be tough on Rory. She already feels terrible that she couldn't make the intervention.”