Honest illusions(BookZZ.org) (59 page)

“From tonight, Callahan, we’re in this fifty-fifty, or there’s no deal.”

“Aren’t you going to swear at me, call me at least one name?”

“I’m saving it.” She lifted her glass in toast. “To Nouvelle and Callahan.”

He tapped his glass to hers and their eyes remained on each other’s as they sipped. “Weren’t you about to seduce me before I interrupted it?”

“As a matter of fact . . .” She set her brandy aside. “I was.”

Luke stood beside Max’s chair, looking out of the French doors, wondering what the man saw through the glass. Was it the buildings of the Quarter, the flower-strewn balcony across Chartres, the pieces of gray sky that promised rain? Or was it something else, some long-ago memory of place and time?

Since his relapse, Max’s mind had sunk deeper into whatever world it inhabited. He rarely spoke at all now, though he sometimes wept silently. His body was sinking as well, fading away pound by precious pound.

The doctors spoke of plaques and tangles, those primary structural changes found in the brains of Alzheimer patients. Abnormal forms of proteins—tau proteins, B-amy-loid, substance P. They meant nothing to Luke, and he’d thought plaques and tangles had sounded like some sort of complex magic trick.

He knew Roxanne had been in to say good-bye and was now down the hall with Nate, overseeing his packing for their week in D.C. Now that he had this moment alone with Max, he didn’t know what to do with it.

“I wish you were coming with us.” Luke continued to look out the glass. It was so difficult to look at Max, at that blank expression, at the clawed fingers that worked and worked and worked as if manipulating coins. “I’d feel a lot better if I could have gone over the whole plan with you. I think you’d like the act. Drama, emotion, flair. It has it all. I’ve gone over every detail.” Hearing the echo of his mentor’s voice in his head, Luke allowed himself a smile. “I know, I know, calculate the odds, then prepare for surprises. I’m going to pay that bastard back for the five years he took from me, Max, from all of us. And I’m going to get you the stone. I’m going to put it right into your hands. If there’s any magic in it, you’ll find it.”

Luke didn’t expect a response, but made himself crouch down. Made himself look into the eyes that had once commanded him to come inside a sideshow tent, demanded he take a chance, take a risk. They were as dark as ever, but the power in them was gone.

“I want you to know I’m going to take care of Roxanne and Nate. And Lily and Mouse and LeClerc.

Rox would get her back up if she heard me say that; she’s been doing a good job of taking care of everything. But she’s not going to have to do it alone anymore. Nate calls me Dad. I didn’t know that could mean so much.” Gently, he covered the gnarled, restless hands with his own. “Dad. I never called you that. But you’re my father.” Luke leaned forward and kissed the papery cheek. “I love you, Dad.”

There was no response. Luke rose and walked out to find his own son.

Max continued to stare through the glass, to stare and stare, even when a tear slipped out of his eye and ran slowly down the cheek that Luke had kissed.

Jake tapped another sequence into his portable computer and let out a crow of delight. “What’d I tell you? What’d I tell you, Mouse? There’s always a back door.”

“You’re in? You’re really in?” Filled with admiration, Mouse leaned over Jake’s stooped shoulder.

“Holy cow.”

“The Bank of fucking England.” He sniggered, linking his fingers and stretching his hands out to crack his knuckles. “Betcha Charles and Di have an account. Man, oh man, all those pretty pounds sterling.”

“Wow.” Mouse read the celebrity magazines faithfully, and the Princess of Wales was a favorite. “Can you see how much they have, Jake? You oughta transfer some from his into hers. I don’t think he’s nice enough to her.”

“Sure. Why not?” Jake’s fingers poised over the keys, stopping when Alice gently cleared her throat.

“I thought you promised Luke you wouldn’t use the computers to poke into anyone’s business.” She didn’t look up, only continued to knit serenely on the sofa at the other end of the suite.

“Well, yeah.” Jake’s fingers itched. “I’m just practicing is all.” He rolled his eyes at Mouse. “Ah, showing Mouse some of the tricks this baby can do since we adjusted her.”

“That’s very nice. Mouse, I don’t think Diana would appreciate your invading her privacy this way.”

“You don’t?” He glanced over at his wife, who only lifted her head and smiled. “No, I guess not.”

Defeated, he let out a windy sigh. “We’re supposed to be checking the Swiss account,” he reminded

Jake.

“All right, all right.” The keyboard clattered, the modum hummed. “But it just makes me sick, I gotta say. My stomach, I tell you, it feels like I ate some bad whitefish. He wants ten thousand more transferred into that creep’s account. I tried to tell him, didn’t I try to tell him that I could sneak the money out of some crooked CEO’s account instead of bleeding his? But no, oh no. Luke wants to pay for the whole sting. That man is stubborn.
Stub
-born.”

“It’s a matter of pride,” Alice murmured.

“It’s a matter of ten fucking thousand.” Jake winced and sent her a quick glance. “Excuse my French.

It’s just that we’re not making a dime on this. Not a dime! Don’t you think we ought to clear something—cover our overhead, realize a reasonable profit?”

“We’re getting satisfaction,” Mouse stated and made his wife’s heart swell with pride. “That’s better than money.”

“Satisfaction won’t buy you any Italian shoes,” Jake grumbled, but accepted that he was outnumbered.

Besides, he could always access another account later.

Alice gathered her knitting and rose. It was barely ten, but she was outrageously tired. “I think I’ll leave you two to your toys and go on to bed.”

Mouse bent to kiss her, stroking a hand down her pale hair. It never failed to amaze him that someone so tiny, so pretty could belong to him. “You want me to order up some tea, or anything?”

“No.” What a sweet man he was, she mused. And how thickheaded. She’d all but dangled her knitting under his nose. Deciding it was worth one more shot, she took the bootie she’d completed out of her basket. “I think I’ll try to finish the other one of these tonight. It’s a nice color, don’t you think? Such a pale, pretty green.”

“It’s real nice.” He smiled and ducked his head to kiss her again. “Nate sure likes finger puppets.”

“It’s not a puppet.” As angry as she had ever been with him, Alice set her teeth. “It’s a bootie, damn it.”

With that she swept into the adjoining bedroom and shut the door.

“Alice never swears,” Mouse said half to himself. “Never. Maybe I should go see . . .” The revelation hit like a bare-knuckled punch to the jaw. “A bootie.”

“A bootie?” Jake’s face cracked with a grin. “Well, ain’t that some shit? Congratulations, Mouse old man.” He jumped up to thump his friend on the back. “Looks like there’s a bun in the oven.”

Mouse went pale, turned a color similar to the famous bootie, then paled again. “Oh boy.” It was the best he could manage as he staggered toward the bedroom. By the time he got the door open and closed again, his palms were dripping sweat.

Alice stood with her back to him, calmly belting her robe. “So, the light dawns,” she muttered and walked to the dresser, began to brush her hair.

“Alice.” Mouse swallowed so hard his throat clicked. “Are you . . . are we . . .”

It wasn’t in her nature to stay angry for long. She loved him too much to try. Her lips curved as she met his eyes in the mirror. “Yes.”

“For sure?”

“For absolutely sure. Two home pregnancy tests and an obstetrician don’t lie. We’re expecting, Mouse.” Her voice broke as she dropped her gaze to her hands. “It’s okay, isn’t it?”

He couldn’t answer. His throat was too full of his heart. Instead he crossed to her in three jerky steps.

Gently, very gently he wrapped his arms around her, spreading his big hand over her still flat belly.

It was much better than words.

Across the district line in the lush suburbs of Maryland, Sam Wyatt sat at his antique rosewood desk with a snifter of Napoleon brandy. His wife was upstairs in their big Chippendale bed, nursing one of her infamous migraines.

Justine hardly needed the excuse of a headache, he thought as he swirled and sipped the dark amber liquor. He’d long ago lost interest in making love to an icy stick who disguised herself as a woman in designer clothes.

There were other ways to find sexual release, if one was cautious, and paid enough. He didn’t keep a mistress. Mistresses had a habit of growing disenchanted and greedy. Sam had no intention of living with the backlash of a tell-all book after he was in the White House.

And he would be living in the White House, he thought. In the dawn of the twenty-first century, he would be sitting in the Oval Office, sleeping in Lincoln’s bed. It was inevitable.

His senatorial campaign was proceeding brilliantly. Every new poll showed him further and further in the lead. It would take a miracle for his opponent to close the gap, and Sam had never believed in miracles.

In any case, he had an ace named Luke Callahan up his sleeve. When he chose to play that ace, a week before the election, Gunner would be crushed.

There were only weeks left until that moment of truth, which meant many long days and nights ahead.

He’d kissed babies, cut ribbons, roused the common man with speeches glinting with promises, wooed the corporate structure with his stance on private enterprise, charmed women with his easy smiles and lanky body.

Sam considered his rise in political power and prestige a stupendously structured long con.

As he told Luke, he’d deliver on some of the promises, for the con was far from over. He would continue to woo and charm and glad-hand. His image as a self-made man striving to achieve the American dream would hold him in good stead. And his handpicked staff of advisers would keep him apprised of the proper foreign and domestic policies.

He had only one policy, and that was power.

He had everything he wanted—until he wanted more.

He thought of the stone locked away in his safe. If he had believed in magic he might have considered how so much had fallen into place for him after he’d acquired it. But for Sam, it was simply another victory over an old enemy.

It was true enough that once it had been in his possession the pace of his success had increased. Sam attributed that to luck, timing and his own personal and political skill.

He’d learned a lot from the down-home and popular senator from Tennessee. He’d sucked up knowledge greedily while playing the man-behind-the-man with the flair of an accomplished thespian—until the opportunity to become
the
man had presented itself.

No one knew that Sam had watched Bushfield die. He had grieved publicly, delivering a moving, tear-choked eulogy, comforting the widow like a son, taking charge of the loose strings of the senator’s duties as the devoted heir.

And he had stood and watched as the senator had gasped and choked, as his face had burned to purple, as he’d flopped like a landed trout on the floor of his private office. Sam had held the little enameled box containing the nitroglycerin tablets in his hand, saying nothing as his mentor had reached out, his eyes bulging with pain, glazed with confusion.

Only when he’d been sure it was too late had Sam knelt and slipped one of the tablets under the dead man’s tongue. He’d made a frantic call to 911, and when the paramedics arrived, they were moved by the urgent way Sam had been performing CPR.

So he had killed Bushfield and had garnered several staunch backers in the medical community.

It hadn’t been as thrilling as putting a bullet in Cobb’s heart, Sam thought now. But even the passive act of murder had brought its own kind of rush.

Leaning back, he plotted the next round, a spider content to spin his web and wait for the unwary fly.

The arrogance of Callahan’s return to the Nouvelle troupe continued to intrigue him. Did the fool actually believe that five years would suffice? Or that money would pay for the insubordination of returning to the stage without permission? Sam hoped so, he dearly hoped so. He hadn’t struck out yet because it amused him to lull Luke into complacency. Let him put on his show, Sam mused. Let him try to seduce Roxanne’s heart away a second time. Let him try to be a father to his son. Sam enjoyed the idea of the man falling into the bosom of his family, temporarily picking up his career and his life. It would be only sweeter to snatch it all away again.

And he would, Sam thought. Yes, he would.

He’d kept close track of the Nouvelles. He was forced to admit an admiration for Roxanne’s style, her flair for larceny. There were carefully documented accounts of her activities in a ledger locked in his safe.

They had cost him, but his wife’s inheritance allowed for such indulgences.

The time was coming when he would use them. The payment for Luke taking a step into the spotlight without consent would be a high one. And all the Nouvelles would pay for it. And if, as Sam imagined, they believed they could pull off one more heist for old times’ sake, they would play directly into his hands.

Because he could wait, he could watch, and he could arrange for the authorities to scoop up all of the Nouvelles after their next job.

That was a very sweet alternative.

He wondered if they would tamper with the auction. It seemed to him that sort of heist held the glamour which appealed to them. He might even let them get away with it. Briefly, very briefly. Then he would snap the jaws of the trap shut, and watch them bleed.

Oh yes, Sam thought, chuckling to himself as he leaned back. It was just that kind of clear thinking that was going to make him an excellent commander in chief.

33

Sam arranged for tickets to the Nouvelles’ much-touted Kennedy Center performance. Front row center. Justine sat beside him, draped in silk and sapphires and smiles—the devoted wife and partner.

No one would have guessed they’d come to detest each other.