T. Bunn - Winner Take All

Wilma gave a soft unh unh. “That was some woman.”

“It gets worse. Kedrick contracted a rare form of cancer known as CML. His only hope lay in a bone marrow transplant from a blood relative. And there was only one.”

The DA snapped her fingers. “The attempted kidnap we figured for a burglary.”

“This alarmed Erin so much she returned to Wilmington, drugged Dale, set the house on fire, and abducted her own child.”

“All this so she could sing?”

“By this time, I think she was after revenge. Kedrick couldn’t give her the debut she wanted. So she hit him where she knew he could still be hurt. She demanded money. A lot.”

Marcus spoke weakly from the sofa. “The hotels.”

Kirsten resisted the urge to turn around. “He was busy selling them by the time we entered the picture. Which means Erin was holding his supposed child up for ransom.”

Judge Sears opened the file on her desk, fiddled with her pen a long moment, then turned to the court reporter and said, “You ready?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“All right. This court is now in session. I have before me a request from the district court of Manhattan requesting the extradition of Dale Steadman. I am hereby turning this down.” Knowing Marcus was beyond reach just then, she glanced from Kirsten to the DA. “Can I leave it to you to pass on the information?”

Wilma smiled. “With greatest pleasure.”

“Okay. Next, there is a charge of murder one. I am dismissing this case. All charges against Dale Steadman are hereby dropped.”

She closed that file and opened the next. “The case entered against Dale Steadman by Health and Human Services is dismissed. Marcus, if you wish I will consider charges against the young man.” When he did not respond, she observed. “He’s fallen asleep.”

“Let him rest.” This from the DA. “He’s had a hard day.”

“I have a variety of charges filed by Hamper Caisse on behalf of the former ex-wife, Erin Brandt.”

“Hamper’s dance card is gonna be full for a while yet,” Wilma offered.

“Fine. Then I am issuing a blanket dismissal of all charges related to the custody of one Celeste Steadman.” She signed a form, then turned to the court reporter and said, “Perhaps you would give us a moment here alone.”

When the court reporter had departed, Sears went on, “There is the matter of the child’s actual parentage.”

Kirsten spoke with utter certainty. “Dale Steadman is that child’s only real father.”

Wilma met the judge’s gaze with an easy shrug. “Works for me.”

Judge Sears closed the file. “I have no trouble holding the information we have disclosed here in camera .” She looked at Kirsten. “Do you know what that means?”

“I have a year of law school.”

“Tell me you’re going back.” This from the DA.

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Do more than think.” She rose, shook the judge’s hand, then turned to help Kirsten lift Marcus to his feet. “When you’re done, come find me. We’re always on the lookout for somebody good as you.”

In all his time at the met, this was Kedrick Lloyd’s first visit to the Family Circle.

The stage was five levels below, a greater distance than he would have imagined possible. The Standing Room section at the back of this level was reserved for poverty-stricken fans. These people were so loyal they braved any weather, long lines, endless waits, for the chance to see what otherwise was far beyond their financial reach. Though they shared his passion, Kedrick had never felt any need to meet and greet. They were beneath him. Far more than distance and four thousand higher-priced seats separated them. Until now.

The stage was set for Mozart’s Idomeneo , a production he had seen perhaps three dozen times. The entire back wall was formed into a pastiche mask of the god Poseidon. The god looked not merely forbidding. He seemed hungry in the manner of one who ate souls yet never grew satiated. His mouth was open and waiting. The dim lighting turned the black eyeholes alive and watchful.

Carefully Kedrick took the dark stairs down to the front railing. His bones were increasingly fragile. Even this descent of nineteen steps was enough to leave him gasping. He used both hands to grip the seatbacks, pausing now and then for air. It would be such a mockery, to come this far and be defeated by a tumble and a broken limb.

He reached the balcony’s carpeted front barrier. The brass railing across its top was impossibly cold. He gripped it with both hands and chuckled over the thought that he really should register a complaint. Order the cleaning staff to warm the rail up for the next one to pass this way.

He paused once he managed to lift himself onto the barrier. More than the exertion was causing his breathing to rasp like wind through dry reeds. For there upon the stage stood an ethereal diva, a lovely woman seemingly trapped in the amber of ageless youth. She wore the full regalia of an opera queen. Her arms were outstretched, her mouth opened wide, her empty eyes focused upon the very last row. But there was no voice to this aria, no lilting power to the silenced voice.

Kedrick released his grip upon the railing and offered the apparition a mock salute. Any place as exalted as the Met really did need its own resident ghost.

He pushed himself to his feet, his hands outstretched like feeble mockery of wings.

He looked down, and decided the orchestra seats were a satisfactory distance away. Now that he was here, he wondered why he had not done this long before. It would have saved everyone so much bother.

He glanced at the stage once more, and stared at the god and his glaring pits for eyes. And the open, hungry mouth.

He then addressed the empty hall for the final time. “Tonight’s performance is unavoidably canceled.”

For once, the weather was with them. A breeze more in tune with the autumn months ahead blew out of the north, chasing frayed and frothy clouds across a gloriously cool sky. They were back at the border of the private airport, watching the small jet taxi toward them. Kirsten waited a short distance from Marcus’ wheelchair as he talked softly with Omar Dell. The court reporter grinned and scribbled busily. A photographer lounged farther back, waiting for the pictures to come. When fatigue began to stain her fiancé’s features, she walked over and said, “I’d like a private word with Marcus, please.”

Omar signaled to the photographer. “One picture of the two of you together.”

The photographer snapped three and would have taken more had Kirsten not declared, “That’s enough.”

“A word for the record?”

“Marcus has already done that.”

The reporter was too full of coming glory to object. “Great to have you two still around and kicking.”

Wind and roaring engines from the commercial airport offered them an illusion of privacy. Marcus squinted into the empty sky and asked, “How much longer?”

“They’re due any minute now.”

The act of reaching for her hand brought the bandages covering his wrists into view. “I never thought I could be so happy being weak.”

Kirsten blocked her motions from the others as best she could. She used her free hand to stroke his face, his neck, his shoulders. The proprietary gestures of a woman in love. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” He raised the hand he held and nestled it on his cheek. “Are we okay?”

She leaned closer, kissed him softly. “We’re better than that. A lot better.”

A shout from the onlookers drew her around. A sleek private jet taxied off the runway and headed straight for where they stood. Kirsten walked over to where Dale stood by the cars. The man’s entire being was focused upon the jet. A tremor rocked his frame, revealing the suppressed anxiety of one who had been forced to live on the edge for far too long.