She was in mourning.
And she was appalled.
She dragged herself off the bed, sat at the dressing table and stared hard at the face she’d worn for so many years. She’d worked so hard to portray confidence and certainty of purpose, and yet the one person with whom she could be herself was Jessup. He’d seen her fail and seen her break. He knew truths about her, but had spent twenty-five years at her side, unfailing and true.
“How could I have been so wrong?”
The words slurred; her face fell into a blur. All those years of faithfulness to the senator, and she’d been so proud. Of what? Her
Her reflection laughed a bitter laugh.
Jessup didn’t want her anyway.
She picked up the gun he’d given her all those years ago. For two decades it had ridden with her in the Land Rover, and yet she’d never fired it. It was heavy, cool, and she thought of his face when he’d first pressed it into her palm: a hint of smile, but serious, first touch of white in his hair.
Had she been wrong even then?
Had he ever loved her?
She dropped the gun on the bed, stood and paced. She had brief thoughts of Julian and Michael, of the horrors she’d seen in the barn. But mostly she thought of her life, of choices made and opportunity missed. She thought of things she could not forget, and of failures she could not unmake.
She wondered if she’d managed to change at all. All the tough decisions, all the sacrifices and lofty ideals. Had they made any difference? Or was she still the same person she’d been thirty-seven years ago? The same girl who swore she could do better? The very thought depressed her. The bottle emptied, and at some point she heard a light knock on the door.
“Abigail?”
She moved to the door and stood, silent.
“I can hear you breathing.”
Pressure built behind her eyes, but no one could help her. “Go away, Jessup.”
“Are you sure?”
His voice was soft; she touched the door and tried not to cry.
Michael left the guns in the hotel room. He wouldn’t get them through security, and didn’t need them anyway. That was the thing about knowledge.
It was full dark when he arrived at the estate. Reporters were still camped out: vans and gear and talent. They rustled when he slowed. Lights came on, then somebody yelled: “It’s nobody.”
Cameras went down; smokers lit up.
He gave his name at the gate, and a uniformed guard leaned in at his window. He wore a sidearm, carried a clipboard. Michael tried to read his face, but it was blank. “Identification, please.”
“You know who I am.”
The guard measured him with a stare that lasted fifteen seconds. “Any weapons in the car or on your person?”
“Is that a normal question?”
“We’ve received unspecified threats.”
“No,” Michael said. “No weapons.”
“Straight up to the house. Someone is waiting to take you to the senator.”
Michael drove through and the gate swung shut. Gas-burning streetlamps lit the drive; far in, the house glowed as if on fire. Michael rolled slowly, and saw two men waiting for him on the steps. One opened his door. The other was Richard Gale. “I’ll need to pat you down,” he said.
“Is that how the senator greets all his guests?”
“We’ve received-”
“Yes, I know. Unspecified threats.”
Gale smiled tightly. “If you would?”
“Careful of the leg.” Michael lifted his arms and let Gale pat him down. The talk of threats was just that, but they needed an excuse, and Michael let them have it.
“Will you follow me, please?”
The senator was right about one thing: his study was spectacular. Wood panels gleamed like honey; the rugs were handmade silk and at least a century old. Vane rose from a leather chair and opened his arms expansively. “Was I kidding?”
“It’s very nice.”
The senator wore a three-piece suit with French cuffs and a pink tie. He took big strides and offered a big hand. Behind him, French doors opened to formal gardens that were lit with colored lights. “What’re you drinking?”
“I’ll have what you’re having. Thanks.”
“What happened to your leg?”
“Nothing really. Not important.”
“If you say so.” Vane turned his back, selected a bottle and poured. When he turned, he looked like every politician Michael had ever seen, all smiles and twinkle and subtle dark. He handed over the glass, sipped his own, then pretended his question had not been ignored. “You’ve met Richard Gale.”
Michael knew this could play two ways: long or short. Either way, the end would be the same. “Sure.” Michael limped across the room and sat in one of the big leather chairs. He held up the glass, let light shine through the liquor, and decided to make it short. “He and a couple of his buddies smashed in my hotel door last night.”
He sipped scotch in the dead silent room.
“I don’t-”
Vane offered false confusion. Michael said, “You need better men.”
The senator put his own glass down. “That’s how it is?”
“I think we both know I’m not here to talk about Julian.”
The moment held, then Vane nodded. “Very well.” He looked at Gale, who opened the door and let three more men enter the room, probably the same three who’d been with him at the hotel. They fanned out, each of them discretely armed.
Michael held up his glass. “Can I get another one?”
The senator smiled and sat. “You’re flip. I like that. It won’t help you, but I like it. And I apologize for what has to happen tonight.”
Michael put his glass on a table by the chair. “Let me save you some trouble.”
“You’re no trouble at all.”
“And yet you plan to kill me.” Michael looked at Gale. “That is the plan, isn’t it?”
“Kidnap,” the senator said. “Not kill.
“To Stevan Kaitlin.”
His eyes hardened. “What do you know about Stevan Kaitlin?”
“He’s blackmailing you-I know that much. He’s been doing it for some time, too. Years, I should think, based on the numbers I’ve seen.”
“Numbers?”
