T. Bunn - Winner Take All

Kirsten’s cell phone chimed again. When she made no move to answer, the senator waited until the ringing halted, then went on, “Word is out, Ms. Stansted. News of this loophole is spreading via the Internet. Citizens of EU countries can reside anywhere in Europe they want. If they marry an American, find their marriage in trouble, and see the American court deciding against them, they grab the kids and flee to Germany.”

“Just as has happened with your client,” Brent finished.

“We’re in the process of enacting punitive legislation against the German government, and we’re working to obtain United Nations backing. But we need a high-profile case to demonstrate just how the court system is stacked against us. Then lo and behold, what happens but we hear about Dale Steadman. A top-notch fellow who’s got himself in this very plight.”

Kirsten’s phone began ringing once more. She did her best to ignore it and replied, “I have to tell you, sir, we’re just not certain how solid a case Marcus has.”

She sketched out what they had discovered. The senator and his aide did not mask their dismay over the news of the fire and the drinking and the local officials’ testimony.

The two men exchanged a glance before the senator said, “This is the problem with divorce issues. There are seldom any clear-cut rights and wrongs.”

“Sounds like you’d best not become publicly involved until we see the lay of the land,” Brent suggested.

“Don’t have much choice in the matter.”

The aide said to Kirsten, “If you’d be so kind as to keep me informed, my staff will help out any way we can.”

“I’ll tell Marcus, but right now I don’t see …” Her cell phone began a fourth ringing.

“Maybe you best see who that is, young lady.”

She retrieved the phone, punched the button. “Yes?”

“Kirsten? Ms. Stansted?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, thank heavens.”

“Who is this?”

“Dale. Dale Steadman.” The man choked over his own name. He took a broken breath. “Sorry. Sorry. When I couldn’t reach you I feared you were dead as well.”

Senator Jacobs leaned forward. “You all right, young lady? You’ve gone white as moonlight.”

Marcus’ world was made up of fractured images, knitted together without the comfort of time’s steady flow. Hands lifted and dragged him from the marsh grass. A sun beamed down as voices and shadows came and went in frantic haste. A siren scrambled out of the distance. More hands. The siren blared again, this time closer and constant. A needle like a tiny bone became lodged in his vein. He grew fully awake then, in time to see a man with a worried expression and a stethoscope take his pulse and blood pressure. When Marcus coughed weakly and struggled to rise, the man’s gloved palm gently pressed his chest. Marcus stared into the man’s eyes and saw just how lucky he had been.

The emergency room doctor treated the burns on his neck and scalp, then pulled several pieces of roasted boat from his back. From a filtered distance the doctor spoke to him about possible ear damage and a minor concussion. A policeman came and asked questions that Marcus did his best to answer. But the man recognized Marcus’ state and soon let him be. The doctor, a fussy sort who seemed to enjoy the reflected publicity, gave Marcus a sedative and wheeled him down for a full body scan. Despite the machine’s thunderous noise, Marcus was soon asleep.

Fragments of old dreams rose from the coffin of repressed memories. They gathered with images from more recent times and danced to the painkiller’s macabre tune. Hours passed, perhaps aeons. He heard Charlie voice the dreaded question yet again: What did his heart say he should do about Kirsten? Then the dream shifted and the boat exploded yet again. Instead of the flash of flames and blackening agony, however, Marcus was battered by loss so potent it flung him back into reality.

Marcus awoke to the sound of that single keening echo. He focused on where Kirsten stood by his bed and reached for her hand. There was no need to ask about Charlie Hayes. Her expression contained all the sad tidings he could bear at that moment.

Deacon stood at the foot of his bed. Dale Steadman hovered by the door, as though uncertain whether he was welcome to the gathering. Marcus lay and waited while the doctor was called. When the doctor ordered them all to leave, Marcus refused to release Kirsten’s hand. The act of awakening had only cemented his certainty. He had to let Kirsten go. If he could not do it for himself, he would make it a final atoning memorial to the friend who was no more.

After the doctor pronounced him in need of little more than a night’s rest, Marcus again spoke to the police. This took less than a dozen minutes, as there was little to describe beyond a flash and a bang and a dive.

Marcus then directed Kirsten to bring the others back. He asked Dale, “Who blew up the boat?”

“My vote has to go for some of the folks I’m trying to roust over at New Horizons. They’re an entrenched group, and don’t think highly of what I intend to do.”

“Which is?”

“Change things,” Dale replied. “Stir things up.”

Marcus listened hard as he could, but detected neither guile nor subterfuge nor motive. “You need to meet me Tuesday for court. Eight-thirty sharp. We need to have the judge see with her own eyes just exactly who you are.”

“You’re flat on your back, near about blown to smithereens,” Dale pointed out.

“Either we show up for court Tuesday,” Marcus replied, “or your ex gets the kid.”

“Didn’t I tell you now,” Deacon said to the room. “We got us a warrior here for the good and the just.”

“If we can find witnesses to refute the testimony against you, the judge will probably issue an ex partae order.” Marcus reached for the water by his bed. The motion raised a chorus of complaints from his body. He drained the cup, then said, “But Erin Brandt won’t be coming back to America. Will she?”

A light gleamed in the dark recesses of Dale’s gaze. “Probably not.”

“In that case, we need to show the judge documented evidence of your ex-wife receiving the order, then refusing to attend the hearing or return the child.” Marcus stretched his back and neck, a test of will as much as muscle. “We’ll serve the court papers in London. She will be out of her comfort zone and vulnerable.”

“About those references. You need to avoid anyone who’s grown fat off the status quo. Which means they’ll probably be reluctant to miss a day’s work and drive to Raleigh to testify.”

Sleep’s gentle lyrics drifted with the scent of hospital chemicals. Marcus looked down to the hand he still held. Kirsten’s fingers were long and delicate and tipped with nails painted the color of live coral. The thought he might never hold her again filled his chest with fires of eternal regret. But Charlie had been right to ask his dreaded question. There was no choice but to give her what she most desired. Otherwise she would wrest it from him. And in so doing she would sever any chance they had for a future together.

Though it cut him with a force far stronger than the explosion he had just survived, he said, “I need you to go to London to serve the papers on Erin Brandt.”

His words embedded themselves gradually. “What?”

“Take tomorrow’s first flight. Locate a detective and have him ready to make the handover as soon as the papers arrive. That is, assuming we win the second round in court Tuesday.”

“But … I can’t.”

“This is important, Kirsten. Vital. I’ll overnight you a copy of the ex partae order. Be sure the handover is caught on tape. We may need this evidence in court.” When she wrenched her hand free, he did not have the strength to recapture it. “If we have any indication Erin is not going to show up in court, you need to follow her back to Germany. Be ready to supply documented evidence that she isn’t complying with the court order.”