Private Screening (46 page)

Just enjoy him, Lord ordered himself. Let him enjoy you.

Near some goalposts, they started playing catch. As their game settled into a rhythm, it struck Lord that the short runs and drops and catches were a kind of conversation. Both began throwing spirals, orange ball floating across the green. His son had never thrown so well.

He caught the ball and held it, head tilted in a mirror of his father's. “Why are you looking at me like that, Daddy?”

“I was thinking how good you are.”

“You looked sad, though.”

Lord shook his head. “Part of having a boy is watching him grow up. It's fun to watch you get bigger and better.”

His son stood taller. “If I have a little kid, I'm going to bring him here, like you.”

“I bet he'd like that.”

“Will you still come?”

He senses it, Lord thought. The divorce has made him keener.

“Of course.”

“Good.” Christopher became quite still. “Then you can
watch
us.”

“Watch?”

“Yeah.” When his son's eyes began dancing, Lord realized that he had been slow to understand the game. “'Cause you'll be too old to play.…”

Christopher dropped the ball and began running.

Lord ran after him. “Christopher Lord,” he yelled, “I'm taking you prisoner.”

“
No
.”

“Then tickling until you beg for mercy.…”

Christopher's shoulders began shaking with laughter, and then he ran out of breath and out of control, chuckling deep in his throat as his father swooped and pinned him to the ground. They laughed into each other's eyes, and then Lord began tickling his stomach.

“Repeat after me,” he demanded. “‘I will always treat my daddy—'”

Wriggling and squirming, Christopher gasped. “I will always treat my daddy—”

“With total reverence.”

“With total—whatever—”

Lord held him for an extra moment. “Thank you,” he said solemnly. “You are free to go.”

Christopher jumped up with crossed fingers. “I can't trust anyone.” Lord smiled, and retrieved the football.

They played catch, man and boy, until shadows began to stretch across the field.

Four hours left.

“It's time to go,” Lord told him.

His son's shoulders slumped. “Don't you want to stay?”

Lord didn't trust his voice. “'Course,” he said at last. “But I promised your mom.”

Christopher watched his face. “One more catch, okay?”

When Lord waved him toward the crossbars, Christopher began running.

As the ball sailed in a high, soaring arc, Lord thought he had thrown it too far. Christopher's run became steps too big for his body, then a headlong stumble barely converging with the flight of the ball. When it dropped into his hands, somehow staying, he nearly fell. Then he careened back through the goalposts, nonchalantly flipping the ball over his shoulder like the cockiest halfback who ever lived.

Lord ran after him, laughing. “Where'd you learn
that
?” he called.

“Watching TV,” Christopher said in triumph, and then his look became hopeful. “
Two
more, okay?”

“No,” Lord answered finally. “It's good to end with something perfect.”

They drove back to Marcia's, Christopher leaning against him. He grew quiet as they reached the street.

When Lord parked in the driveway, Fred was watching from the porch. Christopher turned to him.

“'Member when we went to the beach,” he asked, “and Mommy got cold and stayed in the car?”

“Sure. We pulled the blanket over our heads. It was like a tent—we couldn't see anyone, and nobody could see us.”

“Can we do that again?”

“Uh-huh.” Lord kissed his forehead. “Next weekend's
our
weekend, remember?”

His son hesitated. “Can I keep the football till then? For both of us?”

“I'd like that.” Don't blow this now, Lord thought, and quickly hugged him close. “I'd better go, son.”

“'Bye,” Christopher said, and scooted from the car.

Too quickly, Lord thought. Then his son flipped the football over his shoulder and ran onto the porch, turning for Lord's smile.

“Pick that up,” Fred told him with paternal authority, then glanced at Lord.

You and I, Lord silently promised him, are going to have a talk.

His son came back for the ball.

He picked it up facing Lord. Through the glass, his lips formed the words “I love you.”

“Me too,” Lord answered.

Turning, Christopher tucked the ball under one arm and shoved both hands in his pockets. He walked that way past Fred, and disappeared inside.

They sat at the edge of the pines.

The ocean danced with afternoon light. A white speck of sail marked where water touched the sky, so distant that only time could make it move. Only Phoenix knew that on the sheer-looking cliff close to them, hidden by underbrush, was a rope ladder leading to the deserted shore below. The one he'd use to leave her there, tied up on the beach, to be rescued. Phoenix wished that he could tell her.

Silent, they waited for Lord's answer.

He had only beer left. She sipped hers with incongruous delicacy, bottle tilted to her lips, not knowing it was his favorite. He wondered if she could see his eyes smile at this, or tell their color. Or if she guessed that he was not smoking dope because she did not like it.

There was nothing he could say or do, except to help her wait.

Time passed so slowly, and he had forgotten his watch.

Hers was a Cartier. He saw how much she wished to read it, how frightened she still was of offending. It made him sad to watch what she tried.

Wrist slowly raising, to rest on her knee. Gaze sweeping the ocean, until it stopped above the watch. Lashes dropping to veil her downward glance.

She saw him out of the corner of her eye.

Her hand drew back, as if from a match. And then she turned, so vulnerable that she seemed naked in her fear.

Not daring to look up, he covered her hand with his.

She tried to smile.

He stood quickly, pulling her up. As she faced him, confused, part of him wanted to hold her.

Please, he told her husband silently, do what I ask. Lord can take her place.

He turned from her toward the cabin.

She trailed a few steps behind. Reaching the grave, obscured by what he thought of as Stacy's rain, they stepped around it. On the other side, her hand grazed his again. Seeking reassurance.

When he opened the door, they were drawn to the television. His own voice greeted them.

“If Mr. Lord does not,
both
hostages will die at 9:00
P.M.
tomorrow, on SNI.…”

On the screen, Tony Lord hurried from the Federal Building in a covey of reporters. He hardly seemed to notice them.

“Though Lord already knows of it,” the newswoman resumed, “the precise nature of Phoenix's request is being withheld. But coupled with the demand for money, it may entail certain risks—”

Pushing aside a microphone, Lord reached his car.

“The character of Lord's involvement is further complicated by his predawn visit, disclosed by a reliable government source, to assassin Harry Carson inside the state mental facility at Atascadero—”

Phoenix stood abruptly.

“Whether Lord can reveal this conversation, and what bearing it may have on his decision, are not yet known.”

Watching him drive away, Phoenix wondered in his anxiety how much Lord must know or guess, and whether he would agree to come.

Lord had to come now. Not only for Alexis's sake, but for Phoenix's own.

Instinctively, he turned to her.

As if she sensed his tension, she held out her wrist, showing the face of her gold Cartier.

Three hours.

Leaving his son began a kaleidoscope of Christopher disappearing; a stranger, recognizing him at a stoplight; cameras whirring as he drove in the garage; the unreal silence of his living room.

He felt as if he had traveled half a lifetime in a day. Christopher looked so much older than his picture.

Kilcannon.

There was a sadness that he did not have time to feel. Least of all for himself.

In two hours, he would drive to SNI.

Lord began to do that which would get him there. Showering. Picking a suit, then a tie. Wondering how the ordinary could seem imagined.

Asking himself, finally, why he should care about Alexis.

He began knotting his tie in the mirror.

Two nights before, he had found Stacy in the dressing room, wondering if she would see herself again. Now his own face looked different to him.

Damn Carson, he thought. Damn
you
.

Where was she, and what did she think?

The telephone rang. Quickly, he answered it.

“Mr. Lord?”

Lord sat down on the bed. “Hello, Mr. Parnell.”

“I haven't heard from you.” His tone became querulous. “This
waiting
…”

“I'm sorry.” Lord tried to understand his reasons. “It's moral cowardice, really. I haven't wanted to feel any more than I already do.…”

“But he'll kill her in front of me. Please, you have to …”

“Dammit, I don't
have
to do anything.”

“Please …” As if hearing himself, Parnell's insistence shattered. “Please, I'm begging you.…”

Lord forced himself to sound calm. “I would, too. I'm only trying to understand where my obligations lie …”

“What other obligations could there be?”

Lord paused between weariness and anger. “I have a son,” he answered, “who's seven.”

There was silence. “A son,” Parnell repeated.

“Yes.”

“I see.” Parnell was quiet again. “What I've been asked to do—it's very hard. I was hoping you could tell me, before.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Parnell. I'm only hoping that I'll know what to do.…”

“Then you're considering it,” Parnell put in quickly.

Lord's jaw tightened. “Yes.”

“Thank you. For that much …”

“Good-bye,” Lord said. It was a moment before Parnell hung up.

Picking up the telephone, Lord threw it against the wall.

It cracked on the floor. Lord was staring at it when the dial tone started to beep.

Don't just react. Think your way through this.

When someone knocked, the phone was still beeping.

Lord replaced it, then opened the door, keeping the chain latched. “Doorman let me up,” Moore explained. “Your line's busy.”

“Parnell called,” Lord said tersely, and let him into the living room.

When Moore sat, Lord did not. “The liquor's next to the fridge,” Lord told him. “Make yourself a drink.”

“No. Thanks.”

“Then what can I do for you?”

Moore gazed up at him. “Somehow, you're feeling responsible for this. If it's something you can tell me …”

“Nothing that could get you to Phoenix by tomorrow.” Lord's tone sharpened. “How could four hours change that?”

Moore exhaled. “This afternoon, your friend Rachel reported the visit to Carson.”

Lord sat down. “DiPalma?” he asked finally.

“I assume—his reasoning's not hard to follow. If Carson knows something, and Phoenix knows
you
know, it's more dangerous for you to face him.” Moore watched for his reaction. “DiPalma's using that to break you first, get whatever it is, then nail Carson to the wall.”

“And you?”

“I thought you should know. Before deciding.”

Turning, Lord stared out the window. “Fuck you,” he said tonelessly. “You invited him in.”

He heard Moore walk to the kitchen, then return. Lord looked up to find him standing with a glass of bourbon.

“At the time,” Moore told him, “I didn't quite appreciate how that would work out.”

“You don't mind using it.…”

“Look, even before DiPalma leaked this to Rachel, those calls you told me about bothered me. I think Phoenix may have it in for you.”

Standing, Lord drifted to the window. “When you interrupted,” he said at length, “I was thinking about Alexis.”

Moore waited a moment. With dispassion, he asked, “That she's close to sixty?”

“That she's becoming hostile to her husband. Last night's broadcast turned my stomach for Parnell.”

“It's an old story. Captivity twists people until they identify with their captors, and
this
one's brought back the captivity of a son. For whom Parnell wouldn't pay.”

Hands in pockets, Lord took a few aimless steps, until he stood facing the picture of Christopher.

“So what are you going to do, Tony?”

“I'm not sure.” Lord kept staring. “I've tried to imagine watching her die.…”

The phrase ended in a shrug. Behind him, he felt Moore watching.

“What about Damone?” Moore finally asked.

Lord turned from the picture. Quietly, he answered, “What about him, Johnny?”

For some time, Moore studied him. Then he carefully put down the glass.

“I'll drive you to SNI,” he said.

The face of her Cartier read 7:46.

On his television, Tony Lord pushed through the crowd which filled SNI Plaza.

“Moments ago,” the newswoman was saying, “Anthony Lord passed through the enormous crowd gathered here to see the principals in what has become, quite simply, the most terrifying landmark in the history of television.

“The tension is extraordinary. To protect his hostages, Phoenix has forced SNI to broadcast transmissions which might include their death, triggering a national psychodrama.…”

As if fearing to face each other, they stared at the montage of stills which took Lord's place: Phoenix speaking to the camera; Stacy's first appearance with Lord; Parnell reading his tax returns; Stacy with her head bowed at the concert; Parnell's sick look toward Gustafson; Damone with a shotgun in his mouth. Rachel narrated.