T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

“That’s where you’re wrong.” She reached for more garbage, the movements slower now, her voice older. “You always have been. Always will be. I worry about you.”

“I’m doing okay. Something will turn up.”

“It already has.” She straightened, but did not meet his gaze. “Do I still get my birthday present?”

“I’m not going back to Cairo. Not now, not ever.”

She swatted the words away. “Something else. Are you still offering me anything I want?”

Guarded now. “What is it?”

“Yes or no, Wynn.”

“All right. Yes. But-”

“Go see Grant. Agree to do whatever he says. That’s what I want for my birthday.” The horizon continued to hold her attention. “He’s in Orlando. The Grand Floridian. He gave a luncheon address, he’s meeting some campaign donors this afternoon, then we’re having a little family gathering this evening. Then I’m leaving for eighteen days in Ecuador. Alone.”

“I could come, Sybel.”

“I’m not inviting you. Grant is expecting you at five. Which gives you time to go back and put on a tie.”

“It’s eighty-seven degrees, and I haven’t worn a tie in almost two years.”

“And a jacket. Dark is best.” She halted further protest by finally turning his way, giving him a look all her own. “This is part of the deal, Wynn. Go. You have to be on time.”

The drive into Orlando was the usual trip down nightmare lane. The Winter Park exit crawled by, elongated by four years of memories, all that had come before his wife had died of rheumatoid arthritis. A strange killer, the first doctor had told him, in a voice so detached Wynn could have strangled the man with his own stethoscope. It attacks the lungs and suffocates the patient slow as a python. Almost like going to sleep. After Winter Park came the University Science Park, where Wynn and his two technopartners had almost gone under five times in seven years before finally hitting the golden button. Wynn had spoken to neither man since the buyout. One had accused him of going public too early, the other of selling too low. Now they tinkered in vast private labs and dreamed of another moment in the sun. But without their previous hunger or Wynn to drive them, they were just another pair of embittered millionaires with too much time on their hands.

The Grand Floridian was Grant’s kind of hotel. The lobby was built on a series of broad steps like a layered stage. The governor’s security detail had cordoned off the high left platform where Grant Wells now sat enthroned on a striped silk sofa under glaring television lights.

Wynn spotted the obligatory aide, a stunning brunette with clipboard and earpiece and miniskirted business suit. She stood not quite to one side, clearly loving the attention as much as Grant. Wynn approached and gave his name, accepted the brilliant smile and the news that Grant was running a little behind schedule. He then retreated to the lobby’s opposite corner.

Wynn could not help but color the moment with memories of what had come before. His parents had taught at the American University of Cairo. Days before his sixth birthday, both had died from an illness or poisoning. Perhaps Sybel had discovered which, but she knew better than to discuss anything about that place and time. Nineteen months after their return to America, Grant Wells had been swept utterly off his feet by Sybel’s beauty and fire. Sybel had accepted Grant’s marriage proposal with two conditions: she would continue at university, and Wynn would move in with them. Grant had been running his father’s Ocala electronics store at the time, sitting on the town council and chafing with pent-up ambition. What Grant had thought of an eight-year-old severely traumatized brat invading their married bliss, he never said. Already Grant had shown a politician’s ability to mask his inner workings.

“Mr. Bryant?” The brunette gave him another highly public smile. “The governor will see you now.”

Wynn kept a pace back so as to watch the movement of those patterned blue stockings. Grant’s new aide walked like a two-legged snake. “When did Grant pull you from the typing pool?”

“Three months ago.” A toss of the head. “And it was from Emory.”

As they crested the top step, Grant rose and saw off his last appointment. Stopwatch accuracy. Grant approached with grin and hand outstretched. “Where you been hiding yourself, sport?”

“Here and there.” Wynn gestured back to where the press remained corralled. “Shouldn’t you see to them first?”

“Can’t.” He led Wynn over to the divan. “Besides, they’re eating and drinking on my tab. Something you’ll learn in this trade. Keep the press fed and watered at all times or they’ll pick your carcass like vultures.”

“Thanks, but lessons like that I can definitely do without.”

That caused Grant to smile. “I take it Sybel didn’t tell you why I wanted us to meet.”

“You arranged this?”

“Oh, she planted the seed, I’ll give her that. Credit where credit’s due. Three, four months ago, back when old Hutch had his first stroke.”

A faint niggling went off at the back of Wynn’s mind, like a fire alarm in a distant room. “Congressman Hutchings has suffered a stroke?”

“She didn’t tell you a thing, did she. You don’t have one idea what’s aimed straight at you.”

Grant was blunt-spoken, tall, fleshy, and not particularly attractive. In his younger days, he had possessed such a simple worthiness that most people had overlooked his evident flaws. These days, however, he showed a gratingly false bonhomie. His gaze was that of a fish mounted on a wall-bulbous and dead. Wynn had continued to support his campaigns, however, with gifts aimed not at Grant but at Sybel. Since Sybel always refused anything for herself, Wynn remained one of Grant’s largest soft-money donors. “You didn’t have to arrange all this just because you need more funds, Grant.”

“That’s not it. Not this time.” Grant leaned forward. “I want you to come work for me. In a manner of speaking.”

“Not a chance.” It was the kind of offer made for Wynn to turn down. “Tallahassee has more hot air than a blast furnace. I’m happy where I am.”

“Wasn’t talking about Tallahassee. Hutch had a second stroke last week. A real giant killer. He’s down, he’s out, he’s history.” Grant slung his arm across the sofa back, hugely satisfied with his news. His battles with Graham Hutchings were legendary. “The press has just gotten wind that Hutch has officially resigned. We need to have our candidate and the special election date all set and ready to go. With Congress split right down the middle, there’s not a moment to lose.”

Wynn wanted to refuse point-blank, but his promise to Sybel glued the words down deep.

Grant’s smile broadened. “She’s caught you, hasn’t she. Hooked you, dragged you to shore, left you flapping in the sand.”

“I hate Washington.”

“Sure you do. But you’ve never seen it from inside the club. Makes all the difference. This time you won’t be a tourist with his face mashed tight against the glass. You’ll be an insider. Washington will be your town.” He was expansive now, with the power of knowing the battle was all but won. “Here’s the deal in broad strokes. You’ll run unopposed, just like old Hutch did in the last election. Our party’s got a dead-solid lock on this district, and everybody knows it. Our choice is the people’s choice, and that’s final. I’ll throw some bones to the opposition so they don’t complain about either the speed or the selection. Already spoken to their head man, he’s been after me on a water-rights bill. The man wanted it bad enough to let us push the election forward. Only voters who’ll show up on polling day will be the party faithful.”