Private Screening (38 page)

Moments later, without her asking, Damone left.

He never spoke of this again, or touched her, except as the friend he became. Now, staring at the lights of the SNI building, Stacy wondered what would have happened, or not happened, if she'd made love with him.

“We're here,” Lord told her.

Alexis took one sip of wine.

He had spread cheese and fruit in front of the television. But she would not eat until he had backed away. She still wore the soiled dress.

“The Phoenix Countdown,” Rachel said. “Day Two.”

When Stacy Tarrant appeared, Phoenix leaned forward, tense with hours of waiting for her answer. At the corner of his vision, Alexis glanced toward Stacy's photograph.

She faced the camera with the directness which was peculiarly hers. Yet this made her seem more vulnerable, he thought, a woman forced to become tougher than she wished. It moved him.

“What I have to say is simple,” she began. “I'll do the concert.”

Her voice was level but huskier than usual, a little hard to hear. As relief coursed through him, Alexis turned from the photograph with a puzzled, frightened look.

“You know what John means to me. You know I'll sing if he's alive.” Pausing, Stacy's timbre changed. “All I ask is for you to show me that he is.”

More than her words, the pause made him regret the cruel thing he had planned for her. For a moment, he wondered if he could truly use the Damone tapes he had made, and then remembered she had gone to Tony Lord.

“All I want now,” Stacy finished, “is to see him. I'll be watching at eight o'clock tomorrow.”

When the picture changed, he saw Alexis wince.

Parnell sat at a table, a stack of documents in front of him, waiting for a signal. Then he blinked, once.

Voice raw, he began reading from his tax returns.

“In nineteen sixty-five,” he said, “we had approximate income of three hundred and fifty-seven thousand dollars. Our contributions to charity, inclusive of money and other gifts, were nine thousand, two hundred.…”

He looked down, fumbling with the microphone clipped to his tie. Alexis placed one hand to her chest.

“Nineteen sixty-six,” Parnell resumed. “Income of three hundred seventy-nine thousand, gifts of eleven thousand.”

Between each year, he caught his breath. “Nineteen sixty-seven,” he fought on. “Income, three hundred sixty-one thousand … gifts were ten thousand.”

Alexis stared now. There was sweat on Parnell's upper lip.

“In nineteen sixty-eight …” His voice cracked.

Alexis seemed to stop breathing—as if, Phoenix saw, she and Parnell were alone. He gripped the return in both hands. “Nineteen sixty-eight,” he rasped, “income of four hundred eleven thousand …”

As Parnell swallowed, Alexis's lips parted.

“Gifts …” He coughed, finishing miserably, “Two thousand …”

The returns slid from his hand.

He stared at them dumbly, then his head jerked up. “That was the year Robert, our son …”

Watching, Phoenix saw the pain on Alexis's face. Parnell's voice broke. “If you only knew our sorrow.…”

As he turned from the camera, Alexis's eyes seemed to harden. Parnell looked back again, mouth open but silent, as if beseeching her.

He was certain now. He could break Parnell on television, as part of his entertainment. In front of his own wife.

Phoenix wondered how this ordeal would change her.

As she watched, mortified yet unable to look away, Parnell slowly picked up another piece of paper. “Nineteen sixty-nine,” he managed. “Income, five hundred thousand …”

Day Three: Wednesday

S
TACY
sat upright, and then the scream died in her throat.

Her heart was pounding. Brushing back her hair, it felt damp. The sheets were kicked off the bed.

“Damn you,” she murmured.

She switched on the lamp, fumbling for her glasses. Dawn was a crack of light at the edge of her drapes. She had slept for perhaps two hours.

Jerking the drapes open, she thought of the last morning she'd awakened with Jamie.

“You can't let go,” Lord had said, “because you lost Kilcannon.”

Morning came blue-gray across the rooftops, bringing the promise of sunlight. She wondered if Damone could see it, and if it looked the same.

“Imagination,” Jamie had once told her, “is a curse.”

In thirteen hours, she would know if John still lived.

She went to the stereo, turned on a New Wave station, and sat at the edge of the bed. Her breathing had eased; when she repeated “Damn you,” almost as if practicing, her voice was close to normal.

Her dream had started out the same.

She was singing at the Arena; as before, the crowd held Carson aloft with his revolver aimed at her face, setting off a sequence she could never stop. Glancing backstage, Carson fired past her; she turned to find Jamie dying; he asked her what it meant. But this time the dream did not end there. At the moment Carson shot her, she awakened, calling out for Damone.

He was the only one she'd ever told about the dream.

“What it means,” he had answered after a time, “is that you'll have it till you sing again.”

She wished that she could tell him how scared she was.

Lord ran faster.

In front of him, Pacific Avenue rose between gabled Victorians and stone mansions, shade trees, manicured gardens. The street was quiet—a few cars, birds calling, some kids walking to private schools. Ahead the same old woman with flinty eyes peered over one shoulder as her poodle decorated a bush. Lord's Nikes kept pounding the sidewalk. Turning left up the steep grade that was Pierce Street, he glanced behind him at a mile of houses, slanting toward the blue circle of the bay. Then he started up the hill.

Above, Pierce stopped at a knoll of grass and trees overlooking the view to Lord's back. Reaching the top, Lord saw a bearded man on a park bench, drinking coffee and reading the morning paper. Steam rose from his thermos cup.

As Lord ran into the park, the man put down his paper. Stopping next to him, Lord pressed the timer button on his wristwatch and said, “Twenty-nine minutes.”

“What distance?” Moore asked.

“Five miles—I'm getting faster.”

“You'll need it to outrun the cameras.” Moore glanced toward the front page; beneath “Tarrant and Parnell Say Yes,” the photograph of Lord and Stacy entering the Federal Building was captioned, “A Stunning Pair.”

Lord sat down. “They just don't have her sense of humor.”

Moore looked at him keenly. “Why'd she want
you
, Tony? Bullshit aside.”

“You mean aside from what she tells me?” Lord paused. “My theory is that she thinks I know something about Carson no one else does.”

Squinting, Moore blew on his cup. “Do you?”

“Nothing I can relate to this.” Lord noticed there was dew on the grass, glistening in the sunlight. “Not, seeing how I
am
his lawyer, that I could tell you if I did.”

“In which case, you'd have what they used to call a moral dilemma. Seeing how you might be able help us stop this guy from killing two more people.”

Silent, Lord stared across the rooftops at a destroyer heading into port. “How do you suppose,” he finally said, “that he got that broadcasting equipment without stealing it.”

“With cash.” Moore gave him a sideways glance. “We don't know from where.”

Lord turned. “What's DiPalma
have
, Johnny?”

“Outrage.” Moore's smile didn't change his eyes. “He thinks you fucked him—and consider how
you'd
like to be the jerk that lost the Carson case. Phoenix is his last chance to bring you down in public and keep from losing reelection.”

“If that's all it is, the bureau wouldn't play along.”

Moore shrugged. “What if he's right, Johnson keeps asking, how will we look—the pressure from Washington's unbelievable. Me, I'm never happy with questions I can't answer.”

Lord kept watching his eyes. Quietly, he asked, “Is Damone part of his own kidnapping?”

Unscrewing the thermos, Moore poured some coffee. “Is that what she thinks?”

“I doubt it's occurred to her.” Lord's tone sharpened. “Come off it, Johnny.”

The faint smile returned. “There's no preparation for flight, odd financial transactions, or association with known crazies. In fact, nothing strange since that charming little stint in the Army.” Moore's eyes remained a blank. “But maybe you know why Damone would abandon a good career and considerable personal assets to become a fugitive, or what his motive might be. Considering that he's close friends with one extortion victim and never met the other.”

Lord had no answer. “If it's real,” he finally asked, “how did Phoenix take him?”

“With difficulty. The door was kicked in, and Damone's blood was on the dining room table.” Moore sipped coffee. “This morning we matched a tire track near his drive to the van that took Alexis.”

“You found it?”

“Last night, pretty close to there. Plus the guard, alive but no help at all. The hooded wonder scared the piss out of him.”

“Any fingerprints?”

“Uh-huh. The guard, both Parnells,
and
Damone. His are less clear—maybe older.” Moore paused. “Maybe he's dead.”

Lord was quiet again. After a time, he said, “I can see Damone trying to escape and getting killed, or just being too dangerous to chance taking with them—it would be much easier for Phoenix to work on Alexis by herself. Frankly, if I were him, I wouldn't keep Damone alive any longer than I needed him.”

“I guess we'll see tonight.”

Lord shoved both hands in the pockets of his' running suit. “What about the Parnells?” he asked slowly. “One family, two victims. Any chance it's the same kidnapper?”

Moore considered him a moment. “That file is seventeen years old, Tony. And it's absolutely cold—they never even found the body.”

“Who was the agent?”

“Frank McCarry. But he died last year. There were no prints left at the scene, and the MO's different—not jazzy, no politics. Just money for the kid.”

“Did McCarry know why Parnell didn't ransom him?”

“From his notes there were family problems—the boy moved out abruptly, six months before it happened. But Parnell insists he didn't pay for the same reason you don't want Stacy to ransom Damone. Though that didn't work out very well.” Moore turned toward the bay. “As Parnell demonstrated last night, for the edification of millions.”

“How's he holding up in private, Johnny?”

“He's not.”

Lord considered this. “You know,” he finally murmured, “I almost hope he
is
dead.”

“Damone?”

“Yes.”

“You're worried for her, aren't you?” Moore faced him. “Specifically, you're thinking there's no way to stop Phoenix from slipping into the Arena and blowing her away.”

They stared at each other. “You don't know who Phoenix is or what he looks like,” Lord said. “Imagine what he could get out of Parnell by harming Stacy.”

Moore's look turned curious. “Has
that
occurred to her?”

“She doesn't say. But I'm sure it has—what with Kilcannon.”

“And if he shows Damone?”

“Then I hope you can protect her.”

“From twenty thousand people? We'll put cops around the stage, snipers on the catwalks, metal detectors to snag guns coming in. But there's no guarantee, especially where Phoenix could plant bombs or plastic explosives and maybe get away unharmed.” Moore finished his coffee. “A hundred million more are going to watch on SNI. Pretty tempting to a psychopath—which I absolutely think this asshole is.”

“Not political?”

“Sometimes they go together. But if I were as sure of what he wanted, and why, we'd be closer to who he is.” Moore paused. “What he's done is much too risky for simple extortion, so one thing he clearly needs is the worldwide attention he's commanded. Which makes him more unpredictable each day that goes on.”

“By inspiring him to new heights?”

Moore nodded. “Each night he has to top himself. And no one knows what could anger or excite him to the point that he explodes.”

Lord turned back toward the water. “SNI's become his partner,” he said after a while. “When I woke up, their tapes were all over every channel, and a horde of cameras and reporters were waiting for me on the sidewalk. One of them said that at eight o'clock last night downtown was near-deserted.”

“It'll only get worse. And given what I've told you, I don't think we're close.” Moore gazed at him. “I didn't want to say this in front of your new client, but DiPalma's raised a question about Carson that maybe you alone can answer, at least in time. I can't tell you what to do, except that we'll try to use whatever people can give us to stop this. So I'd feel better if you'll keep thinking about it.”

Lord rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Okay,” he said at length. “Thanks for the clandestine meeting.”

“Anytime.” Moore began screwing on the cup. “By the way, what does his name mean to you?”

“It's a mythic bird.” Lord stood, looking out. “As I recall, it burned itself on a pyre, then rose from its own ashes.”

“Anything else?”

Lord turned to him. “The Carson trial. Of course.”

Alexis finished speaking.

From behind the camera, Phoenix watched her, afraid to move.

He must think, to stop himself from feeling. That she was now becoming his weapon meant that he must protect her from himself.

As he watched Alexis, his picture of Stacy gazed over her rigid shoulders in a confusing double image. Full mouth, fresh skin, clear eyes. Every man's fantasy lover, or daughter, or mother; the woman he needed to step onstage for him.