T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

“That’s enough.” Having this stranger spout her secrets in these absurd surroundings seriously rattled Jackie’s cage. “I’m out of here.”

Esther Hutchings restrained her with one tense hand. “No one would ever suspect us of having any connection. Which is vital if we are to succeed.”

“Let go of my arm.”

“One thing more. My husband was convinced that Pavel Hayek and his group are the driving force behind the opposition to financial reform.”

She froze in midflight. “What?”

Esther Hutchings pulled a manila envelope from her tennis bag. “Just do me the kindness of looking over these documents. I’ve enclosed a contract as well. If you agree to help me, sign one copy and forward it to my lawyers. The first payment will be sent to you immediately.” When Jackie made no move to take the package, Esther slipped it into her hand. “I urge you to view this as a matter of vital importance.”

“This meeting is over.” Jackie left the veranda, crossed the lobby, and reentered the reality of a tropical afternoon.

She handed the claim check to the valet, took a couple of hard breaths, and stared out over the palms at a torrid sky. Unlike this fairy-tale castle with its emerald lawns and mountains of fragrant blossoms, the real world held broken dreams, men who lied, and families that fractured and never healed. What right did Esther Hutchings have to taunt her with such a bruising reminder of everything that was not hers?

Jackie paced to the shaded line where the portico’s shadow was sliced by the sun. Her idle hands opened the packet and pulled out a series of documents fronted by the contract.

“Ma’am? Excuse me, is this your car?”

She blinked in confusion at the valet standing by the Camaro’s open door. Jackie handed him a bill without even checking the denomination and slipped behind the wheel. Then she read the figure typed onto the contract’s payment line a second time. She looked up at the valet who was waiting to shut her door, and declared, “This can’t be right.”

Wednesday

Newly elected United States Congressman Wynn Bryant checked his watch. In precisely nine minutes he would be back inside the longest day of his entire life. And it was scarcely one in the afternoon.

Scattered across his desk were the remnants of a sandwich his secretary had brought up, and position papers on fourteen urgent matters that yesterday he had not even known existed. He licked the mayonnaise from his fingers and sifted through the seven he had not yet read. The previous weeks had been a whirlwind of cameras and meetings and people and chatter. Wynn had clocked over three thousand miles and never left the district, always accompanied by a party staffer. Election day had found him too numb to care, even when the local press had declared him just another of the governor’s lackeys with their interchangeable names.

After meeting yesterday with his regional office staff back in Melbourne, Wynn had caught the last flight to National and gone straight to the Willard-according to his travel agent, the best hotel within walking distance of Capitol Hill. It was a grand old place, full of Federalist grace and lofty heights and gilt. As good a place as any to call home for a while.

This morning, his entire Washington staff had been present to greet him. Everyone seemed highly intelligent, motivated, sharp, and far more aware of the business of politics than he would ever be. Even his secretary had a degree from Princeton. After a brief run-through of pending business, much of which Wynn had not understood, a staffer had walked him to the Capitol via the underground tunnel system. While inside the concrete maze, Wynn noted dozens of faces that had the vague familiarity of news flashes. All he could think was, sooner or later he was going to have to ask all nine staffers their names again. The aide had guided him into the House chamber, pointed him to Hutchings’ desk, wished him luck, and departed.

The swearing-in had proceeded swiftly. A few other members had stopped by his desk, shaken his hand, welcomed him to the club. That’s what they called it, or some did. The club. They had all seemed impossibly at home with the place and the proceedings. One had even mentioned how his own desk had once belonged to Samuel Adams. Wynn had seen little beyond the pomp and circumstance and the sea of faces in the visitors’ galleries. He sat and let the process wash over him for an hour or so, then rose to his feet, exchanged nods with the Speaker, and returned to his office overland. He doubted he could even find the tunnels, much less navigate them. Springtime in Washington meant tulips and cherry blossoms, mint-green trees and wind too cold for a supposedly southern city. The flowers were obviously for the tourists. No one else paid them any attention.

He had arrived in his third-floor office to the sound of ringing phones. They never seemed to stop. He had taken nine calls back to back, the last from the state secretary of commerce with regard to an upcoming bill. Wynn had duly taken notes and then lost the page. These had been followed by two subcommittee meetings. Thankfully, nobody seemed to expect him to do more than show up, look through his papers, and shake a few hands. He had returned to his office and demanded time for a solitary lunch. His chief of staff had immediately brought in the stack of position papers for him to peruse. A little light reading to go with his chicken Caesar roll.

Two minutes.

His suite of offices were quietly efficient and never silent. C-Span crooned the political equivalent of Muzak, a constant background drone. The outer office was tightly involved in work he did not know enough to question. Perhaps it was just their way of welcoming him, everyone occupied with something critically important. But Wynn didn’t think so. Their message seemed clear enough; he was an interchangeable cog. No matter who sat in his high-backed leather seat, the business of power would keep rolling along.

Tension hummed in time to the overhead fluorescents. The office furniture was a hodgepodge of styles and decades. His secretary possessed a tiny alcove behind the reception counter. His chief of staff, a singularly unattractive man with the Florida cracker name of Carter Styles, had the only other private office, attached to the back of the reception area and possessing a much-envied dirty window. The suite’s other room contained five cramped staffers.

Wynn’s own office was comparatively luxurious. It boasted a rich blue carpet, two paneled walls, built-in glass-fronted display cases, and a less shopworn desk. A burnished state seal hung over the doorway. State and national flags stood to either side of the big windows behind him. From a collection of photographs on the trophy wall, Hutchings brooded worriedly over the governor’s choice of replacement.

Wynn was examining Hutchings’ expression when the phone rang. He glanced at his watch. Right on time. He saluted the former congressman with the receiver and announced for himself alone, Guilty as charged. “Yes?”

“Jackson Taylor is on line three.”

“Who?”

An incredulous pause. “Mr. Taylor, Congressman. Chairman of the party.”

“Oh. Right.” No doubt this would become another tidbit to pass around the office. Further evidence of his utter ignorance. “Fine.”

“And Senator Trilling’s office called again. The third time today. They say it is imperative that you spare the senator fifteen minutes.”

“Can I fit it in?”

This was clearly a more appropriate question. “There are no votes scheduled for this afternoon’s session, Congressman.”

“Book it.” He glanced at the pile of embossed cards by his phone. “Are all these invitations for me?”