“Four hours, and don’t be late. This phone’s running low on juice.”
“I’d like to talk to her.”
“Sixty-seven million, Michael.”
“Jimmy…”
“You’d better have it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Abigail took coffee on the rear terrace. An awning shaded her from the low sun, but light glinted off the lake. She was clean, dressed in attire she deemed appropriately somber. Cops had been on the lake since dawn, and as far as she knew, another body could come up any minute. That’s how uncertain life had become, how tenuous the bonds of normalcy.
She sipped as she watched, said nothing as the senator dropped into a seat beside her. “If they find another one,” he said, disgusted, “I’ll kill someone myself.”
She looked at the boat and saw thin, black lines come in over the side. Water trailed from metal hooks, and as they flew out again, someone in the boat turned her way, looked up the hill and shaded his eyes. It was Jacobsen, she thought. He had that stiff, officious air.
Vane poured coffee. “Three bodies and the whole damn world watching. There’ll be subpoenas soon, warrants for the house. They’ll want Julian in custody, I suspect. Interrogation, at the very least. It’s a goddamn disaster.”
He added cream, and she said, “I won’t let you take Michael down.”
“What?”
Her skin was washed of color, her eyes clear even though she’d been up all night, thinking. “You’ll drag him down for no good reason. You’ll ruin him for your own cause.”
“That’s absurd.”
“I know how you work, Randall. I’ve seen you do it before.”
He smiled, but convinced no one. “It would be nothing sinister, Abigail, just public relations, just politics. Smoke and mirrors. It wouldn’t stick.”
“I won’t let you do it.”
“You couldn’t stop me if your life depended on it.”
“Is that some kind of threat?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, keep those offensive comments to yourself, Randall. I know how the world works.”
He frowned, changed the subject. “You were seen with Victorine Gautreaux this morning. You brought her to the house.”
“I gave her Julian’s medicine.”
“Why?”
Abigail watched boats move for the shore. “Because he’s delusional. Because he needs it.”
“I mean, why did you let her go? Do you even know where Julian is?”
“In the woods, I suspect.”
“He needs to be controlled.”
“Until his head is clear, I’d prefer him anywhere but here. He’s hallucinating.”
“But you hate that family.”
“I hate Caravel. There’s a difference. The daughter surprised me.”
“Meaning?”
“I was impressed.”
“How could the white trash daughter of a white trash whore possibly impress you? What could she have possibly said?”
“She wants a better life. Julian is helping her.”
“I bet he is.”
“Must you be so juvenile? She’s an artist. Carves bone, apparently. Something her grandmother taught her. She must be exceptional at it.”
“Because Julian wants to bang her?”
“Because for all Julian’s faults,” Abigail finally raised her voice, “he is a man of exquisite taste. If he says she has talent, she does. He sent her work to New York. He got her a showing at one of the finer galleries. His publisher wants to do a book.”
“About bones?”
“About a disappearing art form. About an illiterate child who does this exceptional thing.”
“Artists. Writers. Jesus. How did my life come to this?” The senator stood. “If you need me, I’ll be with the lawyers. They’re bloodsuckers, but at least I understand them.”
He got halfway to the door before Abigail stopped him. “What I said about Michael…” She waited for him to look back. “I meant it. If you try to hurt him, I’ll take it personally.”
The senator smiled thinly. “You would choose him over me?”
“Don’t force the choice.”
“Sometimes, Abigail, it’s you who I don’t understand.”
“Perhaps it’s best that way.”
“And perhaps not.”
The senator left; she finished her coffee.
Two hours later, they came for Julian.
Michael heard about it on the radio. He was doing 110 on the interstate, eyes wide for state troopers, weapon cocked on the seat beside him. He’d never killed a cop or a civilian, but knew Jimmy well enough to know that four hours meant four hours.
The needle touched 120.
He checked the rearview mirror again, turned up the radio.
“… sources close to the investigation indicate an arrest warrant has been issued for Julian Vane, the internationally best-selling children’s author and adopted son of Senator Randall Vane. Authorities have converged on the sprawling estate…”
They had few details, but the story was sensational. Celebrity. Politics. Multiple bodies. When it was over, he called Abigail. “How’s Julian?”
“Michael? Where are you?”
He heard voices in the background, a low, vital hum. “Is he arrested?”
“No, but they’re looking for him, and its only a matter of time. He can’t hide forever, and if he runs, God alone knows what’ll happen. I’m coming apart, Michael. Randall says the warrant is trumped up, but it won’t matter. If they arrest him, they’ll break him. You said it yourself. He can’t handle it.”
“I’m on the road-”
“Don’t come here!”
Michael hesitated as hairs stood up on his arm. “What’s wrong?”
“Just… don’t.”
Michael thought for long seconds. “I need my gun,” he finally said.
“What?”
He pictured Elena, broken in some dark hole; Jimmy with an unknown number of men, and a full day to prepare. Michael had the forty-five, and that was it. “The nine millimeter you took from my car. I need it. I don’t have time to find another one.”
