The Warning (25 page)

Buddy did not deny it. “It's the Lord's doing, not mine.”

The interstate traffic was a steady, aggressive rush. Buddy glanced through the morning's newspaper, but nothing he read held his attention. He settled the paper on the seat beside him and returned his thoughts to his family, anticipating the joy of seeing them again, spending a weekend together. And then, unbidden, came the old ache of worry over his brother. Buddy sighed and shook his head.

“What's the matter?”

“Alex.”

“Oh.” Clarke nodded slowly. There was no need to say anything more.

“We've always been so close,” Buddy went on, wishing he could push the pain out with the words. “He was the one who named me. Alex was named after my father's father. When I came along, they saddled me with my other grandfather's name, Broderick.”

“I never knew that.”

“It's one of those deep, dark family secrets. Alex never could say it. He was four at the time, and already the most headstrong little fellow you've ever met. I had that on best authority—my mother. Anyway, he spent the better part of a day standing by my crib trying to get his four-year-old mouth around my name. Then he gave up and called me Buddy. I've been Buddy ever since.”

Clarke took the first exit for Flint. When he had stopped at the light at the bottom of the ramp, he turned and watched Buddy for a long moment before saying quietly, “It's in the Lord's hands, friend.”

“I know.” A long sigh. “Some things are a little harder to leave in his care than others, though. Aren't they?”

The ache accompanied them through the the streets of Flint. When they stopped at a traffic light, Buddy looked out his window at a bustling scene, at people hurrying to-and-fro, caught up in worries and business and work. Construction workers in hard hats, steelworkers in blue factory coveralls, women and men in business suits, people young and old. A mother in the car next to them was tending to a baby in the backseat. Behind her a woman in what looked like hospital whites was talking into a cellular phone. He could feel Clarke watching him, and he struggled to put his emotions into words. “I feel like I'm beginning to catch little glimpses of what it means to see with God's love. I feel his sorrow for the direction the world has chosen to go.”

The traffic light turned green. Clarke drove on in silence. Buddy continued, “There will be millions who blame God for this economic disaster when it strikes. But the truth is, He has given us laws and He has given us a Savior. If we had followed them more closely we could have escaped this entirely.”

“If only,” Clarke said quietly. “If only.”

“We have nobody but ourselves to blame. But knowing this doesn't make it any better.” Buddy glanced out through the windshield. “I hurt for them, Clarke. I feel like the Lord is taking my worries over Alex and changing them, forcing me to feel a taste of
His
pain.”

The seating area in the back of the chopper was empty this time. One of the pilots came back to usher Thad in, close the portal, strap him to a seat, and wish him a hurried welcome. Clearly they were under instructions to make good time. Thad sat back and enjoyed the plush surroundings.

The leather seats gave way to walls and ceiling carpeted in the same silky covering as the floor. Seats and walls and floors, even the frames surrounding windows and the triple television sets, were a calming pastel blue. It gave Thad the feeling of being both cocooned and cosseted.

As Manhattan's skyline swooped into view, Thad reviewed what he knew of Nathan Jones Turner. The man was flamboyant and loved the spotlight. Turner was tall and well-kept for a man in his early seventies, with deep-set eyes and a piercing gaze. He was known for his notorious temper and had the touch of a modern-day Midas. He produced movies and loved to parade around with starlets one-third his age. He owned three jets and a helicopter and hated flying. He had recently spent twenty-two million dollars on a Van Gogh. The man was a living legend.

Thad felt a twinge of unease as they passed over the Manhattan skyline and kept heading east. When a white strip of beaches disappeared behind them, Thad punched the intercom button.

“You need something, Mr. Dorsett?”

“Where are you guys taking me?”

“Didn't they say? You're being met by Mr. Turner.”

He looked out the window, saw nothing but blue skies and empty blue sea. “He's got a secret island out here nobody's ever heard of before?”

“Better than that, sir. Much better.” The helicopter did a slow bank to the left. “Take a look out your left portal.”

Thad slid to the other side of the chopper, looked down, and gasped aloud. Beneath him was the largest yacht he had ever seen.

The pilot slid open the door separating the cockpit from the passenger quarters. A grin appeared beneath his aviator shades. “Most people do that the first time they see the boat. Gape like that.”

“That belongs to Mr. Turner?”

“It does now. They built it for some sheikh who never picked it up. Turner bought it last year. Seventy-five meters, over two hundred and thirty feet. It's got about everything you could ask for in a boat. Swimming pool, diving submarine, satellite links, the works. Hang on, sir, we're coming in now.”

The blond chopper hostess was there to lead him from the ship's flight deck. Only this time she was dressed in a bikini top and wraparound sarong. She led him down a set of teak stairs with what appeared to be gold-plated railings, and ushered him into a palatial-size living room.

A white-haired man rose from the leather settee, tossing aside the papers he was working on. “Mr. Dorsett. Glad you could join me.”

“This is an honor.” Thad did a slow sweep of the room. Anybody who went in for this kind of ostentatious luxury was looking for compliments. “And this is the most amazing place I've ever seen, on land or sea.”

“Home away from home. Here, sit right down there. What will you drink?”

“Nothing now, thanks. Maybe later.”

“Just say the word, and Doris will see to whatever you need.” Nathan Jones Turner resumed his seat. He was a well-padded man, but the carefully tailored skipper's blazer and white trousers gave him a sleek look. “Folks told me that I should charter a boat, that I wouldn't have time to use the thing more than a couple of weeks a year. Waste of money, they called it. Know what I told them?”

“I have no idea.”

“Told them to stuff it. Told them it was pride of ownership that mattered. Something most people don't understand. Or can't. Or don't want to, because they know they'd never be able to afford it.” Nathan Jones Turner leaned forward and punched the air with one finger. “But
I
can. And I didn't want to
borrow
somebody else's boat. I wanted to
own
one of my own. Know how much it cost me?”

The air seemed to vibrate with the man's power. Energy pulsed from him, making a mockery of his age and his white hair. “A lot.”

“More than a lot. A million and a half dollars a foot. Know what else? Got thirty percent knocked off because I paid cash. Cash on the barrel, that's the way I like to do business. Know why? Because I
can
.”

Turner leaned forward again. He was always in motion, always tense and coiled, even when seated. “Only a handful of people in the whole world can command that sort of power. Not just power of money. No, sir. Power to
control
money. Have so much you can thumb your nose at the whole rotten lot. You understand what I'm saying?”

Thad felt as though he was sitting through a cannon barrage. The energy being focused his way was that strong. “I'm not sure.”

“You stay there on the trading room floor, you sidle up to your trading buddy, and you'll make yourself a good salary. With bonus, we might be talking a million or more a year.” Turner wiped it away with a sweep of his hand. “Small change. It's still a
salary
. What I'm saying, you want to ride free, you need a
base
. Forty, fifty million in your hand, then you can start thinking like a free man.”

He was being sold. He understood that much. But why was still not clear. “Sounds good to me.”

“Of course it does. You're a smart man. Couldn't have come up with that idea of yours unless you were smart.” Turner inched closer to the edge of the settee. “The question is, how smart?”

“Smart as I need to be.”

“That's good to hear. Because I asked you out here to make you an offer. A once-in-a-lifetime offer. A chance for you to rise above the masses and live life like it means something.”

“I'm listening.”

“You'd better be.” Turner stabbed the air a second time, the jab so sharp Thad had to force himself not to wince. “From now on, you answer to me. You tell me everything that happens in Fleiss's office. Every last detail. What the man thinks, what he says, what he has for lunch. Everything.”

“You want a spy,” Thad said, finally understanding.

“I've got spies everywhere. I want me a spy who can think. Fleiss is losing it. He's past his prime. I want you to siphon off everything you can of his and get ready to take over the hot seat yourself.” Turner bounded to his feet, waited impatiently for Thad to join him. “Think you can handle that?”

“Absolutely. I'm your man.”

“We'll see. If you work out, we'll make every dream you ever had look like table scraps.” Turner wheeled about and strode toward the stairs. “Take the afternoon off and enjoy the boat. If you need anything, you just ask Doris. She's good at getting folks whatever they want.”

The lobby of the Plaza Hotel looked pale and public after the ship's private luxury. Thad seated himself in the corner, dialed Larry's number, and said as soon as the man came on the line, “Turner did a number on me.”

“What's that mean?”

“He wants me to spy on you.”

“Hang on a second.” There was a squealing sound, then silence. “Okay. I've got a gizmo here that interferes with bugs and transmission devices. Can't be too careful with the old man.”

Thad sketched out the conversation and used the traffic passing through the lobby as his own personal reality check. Slowly he felt as though he were returning to earth from a money-clad dreamland. Strange to be thinking that while seated in the lobby of one of the most expensive hotels in the world, one where his own suite was costing the bank eleven hundred dollars a night. But after the yacht, those numbers were peanuts.

Larry waited until Thad had finished to say, “So what did you tell him?”

“I told him yes. Are you crazy? What choice did I have?”

“Then, probably none at all. Not if you wanted to keep your job.” A moment of asthmatic breathing, and then, “Now is a different story.”

“You got me out of Aiden and offered me my dream job.” Only now the dreams felt constrictive. The power of Turner's words and his offer still reverberated. “I owe you.”

“Good to hear. Well, Turner wants you back here in the office.”

“Great.”

“See you Monday.” Another pause, then, “Thanks. You're the one with the chit to cash in now.”

Thad punched off his phone, waved to a passing waiter, and ordered a drink. He had made the right decision to tell Larry. The man was sure to have figured out what went on. As it was, his options were still open. He had plenty of time to decide which way to jump.

Thad stretched out his legs and gave a contented sigh. No question about it. He was a man on his way to the top.

–|
|
THIRTY–SIX
|
|–

It was after ten that night when Buddy and Clarke finally landed, but Molly was there at the airport to meet Buddy. She took one look at his face and enveloped him in a warm embrace. Buddy dropped his carry-on, saw Clarke accept a hug from his wife and youngest daughter, and closed his eyes on the world. Molly's arms seemed to draw the fatigue from his bones. “I want to sleep and never wake up.”

“Soon,” she promised. “But I told Trish we'd stop by.”

“Molly, not tonight. Please.”

“Everybody is finally well, but it's been hard on them. And Jennifer declared that unless she can see you tonight, she is staying awake forever.”

Buddy sighed and nodded silent acceptance. At five years of age, Jennifer could be the most stubborn lady any of them had ever met. As he walked out to the car, he found himself perking up at the thought of seeing his auburn-haired angels.

Scarcely had he come through the door before his legs were enveloped by two pairs of eager arms. “Granddaddy!” Buddy lowered himself and embraced them before rising to greet his son and daughter-in-law.

He scarcely seemed to hear what he said or was said to him. What was far more important than the words was the simple joy of being back among his family, in the place where he most belonged on this earth.

Molly sat across from him, content to be where she could watch him enjoy their family. Buddy sat with a mug of lemonade in one hand, a ham sandwich in the other, and a smear of mustard on one cheek, listening to three conversations at once, as happy as he had ever been in his life.

“All right.” Trish broke up the gathering with a clap of her hands. “Veronica, it's so far past your bedtime we might as well plan for tomorrow. You, too, Jennifer.”

Veronica, the younger child, reached out her hands. “Take me, Granddaddy, take me!”

Buddy scooped up Veronica and started across the room. “Say good night, honey.”

She nestled her face into the space beneath his chin, and waved five fingers over his shoulder. “Night-night, everybody.”

His daughter-in-law started up the stairs behind him and murmured, “Be sure to notice the fish.”

So he went into their room, settled his granddaughter on the bed, turned to the goldfish bowl on her desk, and exclaimed, “My, what lovely pets you've got there.”