T. Bunn - Winner Take All

She took back her hand and her carry-on, gave her passport to the customs official, then returned the man’s wave. Her last glimpse was of the stalker, slipping past on her own floor now, not even looking her way. She carried his odor to the plane.

The Friday morning paper had Omar Dell’s byline on the front page. His article took a very hard stance against Dale Steadman’s firing and the company’s immediate rollback of Dale’s changes. Marcus stopped reading when he came to his own name. He dressed and headed out just as Deacon’s paint-spattered truck pulled into the drive. Today he managed a wave, nothing more.

Dale’s corporate apartment was located outside the neighboring village of Louisburg. His was an end unit with views over windswept lakes. Two dozen baby goslings scattered at Marcus’ approach, moving like ungainly fluffballs while their nannies raised long necks and marked his passage.

Steadman met him at the door with a pair of folded shirts in one hand and no sign of welcome. “I was packing.”

“Need a hand?”

“No, and I’m still sober. Which is why you stopped by, isn’t it?”

But he stepped away from the door, permitting Marcus entry. The apartment was large and sunlit and sterile. Dale returned to the trio of half-packed cases sprawled over the sofas. “Coffee’s old but hot.”

“I’m fine, thanks.” Marcus shut the door behind him. “Actually, I’m on my way to court to formally request a warrant be served when Erin arrives in New York.”

“Last night I received a call from Erin’s manager. The concert is Tuesday night. She’s agreed to come down Monday after the final rehearsal. But only if we don’t hassle her.”

“She’s coming to North Carolina?”

Dale caught Marcus’ skepticism. “You told me yourself, this case won’t bring Celeste home.”

“An arrest warrant is our best way of pressuring her.” He realized Dale was not listening. “At least let me go ahead and file the paperwork.”

“Do I need to come with you?”

“Not really. This is a formality handled in the judge’s chambers.”

“I’ll skip it then.” Dale dumped the shirts, then stood with hands dangling. “What do a pair of guys do when they don’t drink?”

Marcus glanced at his watch. Just gone eight and the guy was thirsty. “They talk.”

Steadman disappeared into the bedroom. He was gone so long Marcus finally rose and walked over. A cabinet drawer had been upended onto the bed. Dale stood over the pile, staring down at a framed picture. Marcus did not need to see what he inspected. There was a new corrugation to Dale’s features, a settling into lines of such intensity Marcus felt the pain in his own gut. “You know about my own kids.”

Steadman dropped the photograph facedown onto the bed, gave a single nod.

“It took me almost two years to unpack their photograph. You don’t have to tell me a thing if you don’t want to. But if you need to talk, I’m ready to listen.”

The pain emerged further, creasing his features, wracking his voice. “Marcus, tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

“One step at a time. It’s the only thing that’s ever worked for me.”

The man’s loss was a fiercely bonding current. “Why don’t you finish up here, and let’s meet up for dinner at the Angus Barn. That sound okay?”

As he let himself out the front door, Dale was still standing there, staring at the back of the photograph.

When Marcus knocked on the door of Rachel Sears’ chambers, the diminutive judge looked up and showed him genuine distaste. “What is it now?”

“I’m sorry, your honor. I just thought-”

A voice behind him called out, “You can’t possibly be trying an end run around me and my client.”

Marcus turned to find Hamper Caisse striding toward him. The lanky attorney declared, “You’re gonna have to go a lot further than this to catch me napping.”

Judge Sears aimed her ire at Hamper. “Would you happen to know where your client is today, Mr. Caisse?”

“I would indeed, your honor. On her way to New York.” He cocked a thumb at Marcus. “Which is why he’s sniffing around your chambers, hoping for a bone.”

“I just wanted a slot on your sheet this morning to request a subpoena,” Marcus corrected. “But I’ll save the rest for court.”

“No, you absolutely will not. Under no circumstances am I going to permit you two to wreak havoc with my schedule twice in one week.” She raised her voice another notch. “Martha!”

A laconic voice called back, “She’s gone down for your mail.”

“See if you can borrow a court reporter from somewhere, please.” She directed them into the seats opposite her desk. “Two minutes, Marcus. Two.”

“Your honor, I learned yesterday evening that Erin Brandt is traveling to America. I wanted to request that you issue a warrant for her arrest. You have already found her in contempt.” He spread his hands. “This should be a formality. I intend to serve the order in a New York court and request that they arrest her. That’s it.”

“Seems straightforward enough. Mr. Caisse?”

“There’s nothing straightforward about this, your honor. Next week she sings in the gala charity event to aid children with cancer. My client was asked at the last minute to take the place of a star who’s fallen ill. This is a function to which she is not only giving her time and her talents, but she is paying her way over. And she has agreed, your honor, to come down to North Carolina first thing Monday.”

Marcus protested, “Your honor, I seriously doubt that this woman is ever going to show.”

“May I remind you who we’re talking about here. This is Erin Brandt’s own child, your honor. Obviously it means the world to her.”

“She,” Marcus corrected.

“What?”

“The child. She’s a little girl by the name of Celeste. Not an it.”

Hamper dismissed him with an angry wave. “This is just the sort of tantrum you had to censure him over yesterday, your honor. You see what I have to deal with here?”

Judge Sears demanded, “You’re telling me your client is actually going to show up this time?”

“She’s not going to walk into this courthouse, your honor. She’s going to run in. I’ll stake my reputation on this.”

“Your reputation,” Marcus repeated.

“I spoke with her before she boarded the plane for New York, your honor. She’s given me her word. And now I’m giving you my word. Come Monday, Erin Brandt will be here.”

The ring was muffled by the clothes he had piled on the side table. Dale scrambled and unearthed the phone on the fifth ring. “Hello?”

“Is this Dale Steadman?”

“That’s right.”

“Mr. Steadman, this is Cheryl Sampers at Lincoln Center. How are you today?”

The woman was pure New York art world-brisk, pressing, and with a nasal Bryn Mawr superiority. “Fine.”

“I was asked to call and pass on a message from Ms. Erin Brandt.”

“Why isn’t she capable of phoning me herself?”

The woman did not care for his tone. “I didn’t speak with her personally, but I imagine it’s because they’re running late. The rehearsals were held up because of some work they had to do on the stage. Ms. Brandt asks if you can come up to New York.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“That’s what the message says. I was to call and ask if you could please fly to New York today. On the next available flight. Ms. Brandt needs to speak with you urgently, but will be unable to make the journey to North Carolina because of changes to the rehearsals. And she’s been invited to sing next week in Paris so she can’t come down after the benefit.”