Conscience (The Bellator Saga Book 2) (18 page)

Fischer had let up his grip but held her arm down again, pressing her elbow and wrist to the table. She couldn’t move her hand out of the way if she tried.

“All right, sir?” he asked.

“Fantastic,” Murdock said.

Caroline had never fully appreciated just how creepy he was before. She attributed his goonish qualities to his thirst for power, his desire to get ahead. She erroneously assumed that some of it had to be an act. But it was obvious he was getting off on this. He was a sadist. No nuance. No redeeming qualities. No human behind the mask.

Murdock tapped absently on the table with the hammer. “Last chance. Tell us what you know.”

God help me. Please.
“I know nothing.”

He slammed the hammer down next to her hand and she flinched again. “Just a warmup,” he said, before immediately bringing it down onto her middle and ring fingers.

Caroline screamed. Jesus Christ, it hurt. Worse than being shot, worse than being in labor, worse than the now dull pain in her cheek and nose and ribs. Murdock swung the hammer again, and she swore she could hear her bones disintegrating. She retched, bile traveling up her throat. Powell released his grip on her and she rested her forehead on the table, trying not to pass out.

Murdock pulled her up by her hair. “Tomorrow I do the other hand,” he said. “Unless you somehow regain your memory.” He shoved her head down again. “Take her back to her cell, gentlemen.”

*              *              *              *              *

She involuntarily shook from the pain. She would have passed out, she
hoped
to pass out, but Powell purposely jostled her hand with every step they took down the hall. He and Fischer didn’t bother escorting her inside her cell, just shoved her past the door before locking her in.

Caroline stumbled over to the sink before they turned the lights off, running her left hand under the cold water. The skin was puffy, stretched to almost beyond its limits. Her middle and ring fingers were shapeless masses. She didn’t want to try to move them. The marks from her wedding and engagement rings were gone.

Don’t cry. Don’t. Once you start you won’t be able to stop.

Impassiveness sure as hell wasn’t an option, despite her thoughts to the contrary. She pressed her head against the wall as big angry tears seeped out, and slammed her good hand against the concrete. The pain was unnatural. But at least they hadn’t cuffed her to the bed. She was free to move around.

The cell went dark, which was just about the cherry on her shit sundae for the day. She heaved a giant sob and fumbled her way to the bed. Her thoughts blended together, blurring the line between reality and fantasy, her mind racing with dark illusions of what she would do to her captors if she were armed.

She’d shoot Murdock in the shoulder first. Just to watch him bleed before deciding where to focus her attention next. Maybe pistol whip him so he knew what it felt like. The guards were big on that particular technique. Oh, and she’d need a stiletto heel to grind into the wound. She liked that idea. A lot. It was dripping with irony, the kind he’d never appreciate.

She’d gouge Fischer’s eyes out with her fingernails. Kick him in the groin, over and over. Hit him with his own goddamn baton. Call him a motherfucking sweetheart while she did it. He’d hate that.

She’d cut off Powell’s balls with a knife. No, a dull, rusty razor blade. Snap his arm in two. A nice compound fracture, the blood dripping down from the bone as he pissed all over himself from the pain. See how he liked it then.

Then she’d move on to less pleasant things. Things she’d only read about in horror novels. Terrible ways of suffering they’d never contemplated before. She enjoyed imagining her revenge. Making them all scream and beg for their mommies. Adjusting her plans just in case they fucked up her other hand. She still had her legs. Her feet. Her teeth. There were so many things she could do to them if she only had the chance.

She shook her head, upset that she’d been reduced to this. A goddamn animal with a penguin claw and a busted up face, thirsting for vengeance like a savage. Yet again she questioned why the fuck no one had put a stop to it. Surely she hadn’t been the only one who cared.

It was hard to stay positive, but something like this could not be happening in the United States without someone, anyone, putting up a fight. The public had to know about the raids. About how she and Jack were no longer in Harrisburg. How most of Congress had either left or been terminated. American citizens had to care. They had to fight. The nation’s history was too rich with revolution to do otherwise.

She just wanted to know where the hell they were.

The Past

The headline made Caroline sick:
Former McIntyre Girlfriend Tells All

And tell she had, to the
Philadelphia Inquirer.
A supposedly legitimate source of journalistic integrity. She’d prattled on about Jack’s travails with other women, his proclivities in bed, his tendency to fuck and run. She’d even thrown in some horrific accusations about bad business practices. Some of the sex stuff was true; Caroline wasn’t about to deny that. But most of the article contained nothing but dirty, dirty lies.

The press latched onto every grimy piece of pseudo-scandal they could as the summer progressed. Perhaps because it wasn’t quite peak campaign season or they were simply spellbound by the sleazy tales surrounding the Republican candidate for governor. Muckraking had devolved into yellow journalism of the worst kind. A never-ending stream of hyperbole, innuendo, and flat out libel that gave Caroline a constant headache.

For the past two weeks, the tabloids and even the mainstream media had been all over grainy footage of she and Jack almost
in flagrante delicto
in an elevator at the Fairmont Hotel in Pittsburgh. They were of course in the elevator car alone, and both of them had consumed a good amount of alcohol during a successful fundraiser. Caroline naively assumed they were in a private space. It didn’t occur to her that a luxury hotel might have a security system with cameras that were literally everywhere. If her brain had been clearer, she might have exercised more restraint. Needless to say, they received a considerable amount of less than favorable coverage, and pictures of them making out and coming close to doing much more than that were all over the internet.

Kathleen found it hilarious but stopped making jokes once she realized it was upsetting Caroline. Tom told her that all in all it wasn’t that bad; the angle of the camera and the lighting in the elevator were quite flattering. Christine assured her that it wasn’t as bad as it appeared and had probably done the best job of calming her down. The day after the story broke, Caroline came very close to crying on her shoulder after making the mistake of reading a few blog entries. She never imagined she’d be called a slut or worse on national television or on message boards. She remained grateful her parents hadn’t been alive to see it, and that the girls were away at camp with no access to electronics. Caroline had no proof but firmly believed that someone at the hotel sold the footage to Jeffrey Murdock, who leaked it to the press. But that was the least of her concerns now.

She threw the article down on the table in disgust. “The hits just keep on coming, don’t they?  You think the press would give it a rest for a week.”

“Not when they consider this kind of crap newsworthy,” Jack said.

“I don’t get it. None of this happened during your congressional campaign, did it?”

Jack went over to the wet bar and poured himself a large glass of whiskey. “It wasn’t this bad. Then again, I wasn’t running for statewide office, either.”

“This is ridiculous. How many times can they get away with this?”

He sat down at the table and took her hand. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I know this is causing you a lot of stress.”

“I don’t like that they’re lying about you.”

He laughed. “Sweetheart, we’re politicians. If we’re not lying, they are.”

Her self-righteousness kicked into high gear. “I don’t lie.”

Jack took a sip of whiskey and handed her the glass. “I know. That’s not what I meant.”

She gulped down some of the brown liquid. It burned. “It all seems like overkill. Why is this happening now?”

“Because Murdock is an asshole. A bigger asshole than the Democrat I faced last time.”

“You think this is personal,” Caroline said. “That he’s behind it all.”

“It’s not just that. I think it’s geared at you, too.”

Caroline didn’t want to start an argument, but his interpretation went a bit too far. “Now you’re overanalyzing, Jack. This has nothing to do with me.”

“It has
everything
to do with you. He has this odd fixation on you, Caroline. I don’t quite know why, but he does.”

“How do you know this?”

Jack averted his eyes. “I just know. That’s all.”

Well, that was helpful. “How do you know?”

He sighed. “Sweetheart, I don’t want you to get upset.”

Anytime anyone said that to her, she usually lost her temper. She decided to hear him out. “Why are you so concerned about my reaction? And about his behavior?”

“He…said things to me while we were dating.”

“More than what you already told me?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to give me specifics?”

“No.”

“You don’t need to protect me. I can handle the bad words.”

“I know. My concern is that there’s more behind it. Murdock is dangerous. He can hurt you.”

“Aren’t you being a tad overdramatic?”

“I’m not. He doesn’t like me, and he especially doesn’t like you. That man has a vendetta.”

Jack was being too protective. Too analytical. Politics was politics. Maybe Murdock had taken it badly when she refused to go out with him, but the mudslinging during the campaign was business as usual. Nothing more, nothing less.

“No,” Caroline said firmly. “That man wants to be governor.”

“He knows he’s losing,” Jack said. “So he’s going to go out with a bang.”

She felt another headache coming on and grabbed the glass of whiskey. “Can we talk about something else?” she asked, finishing off the drink and getting up to pour another.

Jack groaned as she settled onto his lap. “Like what?”

She leaned in for a kiss. “Wanna know what I’m wearing to Chrissy’s fundraiser tonight?”

“We still have to go to that thing?”

Caroline nibbled at his ear. “Be nice, Monty. You promised me you’d go, remember?”

“But now I’m in a shitty mood and would much prefer to stay in.”

As if she didn’t know his secret codes. He’d get laid soon enough. “Then have another whiskey or two before we leave.”

Jack took the glass from her hand. “I was going to do that anyway.” She wriggled her ass back and forth against his thigh, and he grinned. “Are you going to dry hump my leg, sweetheart?”

“No.” Caroline gave him a disgruntled look. “Just for that, you don’t get to help me pick out my undergarments.”

Jack slid his hand under her skirt. “I can help you out of the ones you’re wearing right now.”

She jumped off his lap. “First one in bed and undressed gets to pick the position.”

He polished off the remaining whiskey and slammed the glass down. “You’re on.”

*              *              *              *              *

Reporters. Caroline had reached the end of her rope with reporters. She slipped down the hall to the ladies’ room to freshen herself up before facing the press. The night had gone by slowly. Too slowly for her taste. Mostly because she hadn’t been drinking save for the shots she hastily downed with Tom right before Jack came to whisk her away. He was tired, he said. The stress of the campaign, he said. He took it a bit too far when he said that Caroline was exhausted too. Something about lady problems. Tom winked at them both. He knew better.

When Jack got to the edge of the ballroom he made it clear to Caroline that he was neither tired nor stressed, and they had to get home as quickly as possible before people started noticing the bulge in his suit trousers.

She certainly wasn’t going to argue with that request.

Now she stood in one of the stalls in the ladies’ room, pondering the idea that had been in her head all night. Could she do it? How would Jack react? She shoved her concerns to the wayside, yanking her panties down and stuffing them in her purse.

You only live once
.

She stepped out to wash her hands, took a deep breath, and prepared herself to confront the press. They were right outside the door waiting for her. She practically bumped into a guy holding out his phone to start recording whatever statement she was going to make. That was all she needed. If she tripped and fell and God forbid, sprawled out, they’d all know that her underwear was in her clutch. What the hell had she been thinking? And who were they, camped out in front of a goddamn restroom so they could steal a juicy quote? She could see Jack standing a few feet behind them, nodding his head. It was go time.

“May I help you?” she asked.

They all started talking at once and she raised her hand. “Come on, guys. Control yourselves. One at a time. I’ll take three questions.” She turned to the man with the phone jammed in her face. She could be charming. Not for long, but she could try. “Go ahead.”

“Do you have any comment on the article that appeared in the
Inquirer
this morning detailing the accusations regarding your husband’s affairs?”

“My husband is not having an affair,” Caroline said sharply, silently admonishing herself the instant the words left her lips.

Listen to their questions. Think before answering
.

They wanted her to lose her temper over something insignificant so they could get some clickbait. “Next question. And not from you,” she added, gesturing to phone guy.

A younger reporter stepped forward, one she recognized from Pennsylvania Public Radio. Hopefully he was safe. “Is there any truth to the rumor that the Murdock campaign is behind the negative publicity dogging Representative McIntyre?” he asked.

Representative Gerard would get hard hitting questions. Policy questions. Highbrow, reflective questions. Perhaps even an invitation to a Sunday morning talk show. But Jack McIntyre’s wife got the bottom of the barrel. The smarmy, shallow shit festering in the mind of every male reporter who yearned for a scoop. Caroline hated the gap between her two identities but knew better than to give a lecture on gender roles and the unrealistic expectations placed upon political wives. Kathleen would kill her.

“I have no personal knowledge of that,” she said. “And I am not one to speculate. However, Representative Murdock has not distanced himself from these stories and has sought to play them up in his own public appearances.”

“But-”

“Look,” she said, cutting him off. “I’m going to make one statement on this matter, so you all better be paying attention. I am married to a good, decent, and honest man. He has assured me that these accusations are false and I take him at his word. This election should not be about conduct that took place decades ago, conduct that has no bearing on whether or not John McIntyre is qualified to be governor of Pennsylvania. We should be discussing the issues but we’re not, because the Murdock campaign doesn’t want people to be able to draw the distinctions between policy positions. He’s seen the poll numbers. He’s playing a desperation game, although I have to admit I would have expected this behavior a little closer to November.”

“Are you-”

“I’m not done yet,” Caroline interrupted. “If Representative Murdock wants to make this race about morality and human dignity, then he’ll have to deal with the consequences, including any inquiries that may take place with regard to his own behavior in similar situations. Focus on the facts. Weigh the credibility of the people behind the statements. But I can swear to you, right now, my husband is not guilty of those accusations. He is not a perfect man, but it is beneath the people of this Commonwealth for the press to pander to the lowest common denominator and engage in the politics of personal destruction. It does nothing to advance the collective public narrative.” She took a deep breath. “That is all I have to say on the matter. I will not be taking any further questions regarding this story. Have a nice night.”

She broke through the small press cadre and headed toward Jack, who couldn’t hide the goofy grin on his face. Maybe her voice carried further than she intended. He extended an elbow and she looped her arm through his.

“You are fucking magnificent,” he whispered.

She sighed. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

*              *              *              *              *

Caroline took a minute to chat with the limo driver while Jack was trapped on a phone call with Greg. He hated being in the car with her when he hashed out campaign events, particularly when difficult topics were being discussed. Most of his discussions with his campaign manager seemed to involve negative press coverage. Greg couldn’t look her in the eye ever since he’d thoroughly examined (as Jack had put it) the footage from the hotel in Pittsburgh. Caroline had the sinking feeling that Greg now pictured her naked every time he saw her. She had yet to share this theory with Jack.

Her husband slid his phone into his jacket pocket and motioned for the driver to open the door. “Let’s go.”

She climbed into the back seat as delicately as possible. “Is everything okay?”

His voice was clipped. “Fine.”

Jack sat down beside her, loosening his tie. His good mood teetered on the edge. One phone call and her passionate speech to the press had been forgotten. She needed to get him to lighten up, and quickly. The security screen slid up as they pulled away from the hotel.