Stuart Woods: Below the Belt

Macher was looking directly at St. Clair’s face when the strong case exploded. His chair and he in it were knocked backward several feet, and he was stunned by the force. St. Clair was screaming. Macher got up on one elbow and looked at the man: he was flat against the bookcase behind him and on fire from the shoulders up. So was the bookcase.

Macher struggled to his feet and tried to find a way to help St. Clair, but there was nothing he could do. He looked around and saw a fire extinguisher near the door to the room and ran for it. He expended the entire charge in St. Clair’s direction; when it ran out, he went looking for another and found one in the kitchenette where St. Clair’s lunches were prepared. He ran back into the room and emptied the second extinguisher. St. Clair had fallen to the floor behind his desk.

Macher knew at once that the man was dead; his arms, shoulders, and face were stripped of clothes and his flesh was burned black. The phone on the desk was gone; he found another on a table across the room and called 911.

“Nine-one-one operator, what is your emergency?”

“An explosion and fire,” he replied.

“Anyone injured?”

“One fatality. I could use some first aid.” He gave her the address.

“Police, EMTs, and an ambulance have been dispatched.”

Macher hung up and began plotting how he might go to the board and be placed in charge of St. Clair’s business interests. And Nelson Knott. He couldn’t let the man think he was free to act as he pleased.

Stone watched the evening news: Ed Rawls’s book and Martha Parker’s statement took up the first ten minutes, then came this:

“In a related story, Mr. Knott’s principal financial backer, Christian St. Clair, was killed this afternoon by an explosion in his home on New York’s Upper East Side. A business associate, Erik Macher, was slightly burned and was treated at a local hospital and released.”

The rest of the program was taken up with interviews and political reports connected to St. Clair’s death.

“St. Clair’s death comes at a very difficult moment for Nelson Knott,” a reporter was saying. “Knott has sequestered himself at his Virginia estate and released a statement saying that he is devastated by the death of Christian St. Clair and will have no other statement until tomorrow. He has called a news conference for ten AM, at which time he is going to have to address these accusations of the rape of two women when they were employed by him.”

Stone watched the news all evening, switching from CNN to the networks to MSNBC. He fell asleep with the TV on.

Nelson Knott awoke from a fitful sleep to the ringing of a telephone. The bedside clock said seven AM. He rolled over and grabbed the phone. “What?”

“Mr. Knott,” his secretary said, “I’m getting a flood of calls from the media for you.”

“I told you last night — refer them to the press conference at my office at ten this morning.”

“I’ve done that. There’s something else, sir.”

“What is it?”

“The morning television shows are all reporting that several women have emerged, accusing you of charges similar to the one on television last night. Your attorney called and requested that you cancel the press conference this morning and not give any interviews until you and he have met.”

Knott was unable to speak.

“Sir, what would you like me to do?”

“Cancel the press conference,” he replied, “and don’t call me again.” He hung up. He reached for his wife, but he had forgotten that she was in New York, shopping. He got out of bed and paced the room, naked and in a panic. It was obvious to him that his presidential bid was at an end, and Christian St. Clair was dead, so he couldn’t ask him what to do next.

He went into his study and looked out the big windows with their view of the Virginia countryside. It was pouring rain, and the wind was whipping the trees on his lawn. It seemed a metaphor of what had suddenly happened to his life, and there was nowhere to go from here.

He sat down at his desk, still naked, opened a drawer, and removed a beautiful, handmade.45 semiautomatic pistol, one of a considerable collection. He racked the slide, thumbed the safety off, put the barrel into his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

Stone overslept, not waking until nearly nine o’clock. The TV was still on to MSNBC, and Mika Brzezinski was speaking into the camera and a banner beneath her read: “Breaking News.”

“The Virginia State Police, called to the home of Nelson Knott, found him at his desk, dead of an apparently self-inflicted gunshot wound. His death came after multiple reports of accusations of rape by former female employees of his company. Thus ends perhaps the shortest presidential campaign in American history.”

The phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Stone, it’s Ed Rawls. I’m back on Islesboro, at your place. Just got in.”

“Have you heard the news?”

“I’ve heard nothing else,” Ed said. “I’m in your living room, and it’s on right now.”

“You heard about St. Clair, too?”

“Yeah, at bedtime last night, in Augusta.”

“Ed, do you know anything about that explosion?”

“Well, I know that if you don’t follow the proper procedure when you open a strong case, you get a strong reaction.”

“Did you mention that to the people who took the case from you?”

“Nope. They didn’t ask me.”

“Ed, there’s something I’ve got to know.”

“I’ll help if I can.”

“What was in the strong case?”

Ed chuckled. “Nothing. Not a thing.”

“And for how long had that been true?”

“Well, I emptied it before I left it with Joe Adams,” Ed said. “I was trying to finish my book at the time, and I needed a red herring to keep people busy and off my back until it was done.”

“Did Joe know it was empty?”

“Nope, he never asked me what was in it.”

“And all the time it was in my possession, it was empty?”

“Yep. You never asked me, either.”