Stuart Woods - Insatiable Appetites

Hills’s shoulders slumped. “I just want out.”

“You can do that, if it’s really what you want. The Times already has your statement, and they won’t reveal your identity.”

“I mean out of everything.”

Stone began to realize what he was dealing with. “I’d like to help,” he said. “What can I do to help?”

“I don’t seem to have any alternatives.”

“There are always alternatives, it’s just that sometimes none of them seem attractive. It seems to me you have at least three choices: One, you can continue as you are, and when your political colleagues suspect you, deny everything. The only evidence that you might be involved is your presence at that meeting, and that applies equally to the other two dozen people who were there. Two, you can resign from Congress and go home to Philadelphia, or wherever else in the world you might like to go, blaming ill health. Three, you can make a public statement, associate yourself with the Times piece, and resign from your party, become an independent or a Democrat.”

“You’re right, none of those alternatives is very attractive.”

“Tell me, in the best of all possible worlds, what would you like to be doing a year from now?”

Hills sat and thought. “I’d like to have a law practice in some small town in Pennsylvania.”

“Is that within your means?”

“Yes, I’m quite well off.”

“Then why don’t you do just that?”

“They’ll find me,” he said. “They’ll hunt me down and...”

Stone waited for him to continue, but he didn’t.

“Let me pose another question, then: During the next year, what is the worst thing that could happen to you?”

“I’d be hounded out of Congress and the party, most of the people I think of as my friends wouldn’t ever speak to me again, I’d be thrown out of my old law firm. Or, it might even be worse.”

“All of those things sound like a predicate for your doing what you want to do, except the last one. What would be worse?”

“I might be dead.”

“Are you ill?”

“No, I’m very fit.”

“Do you suspect someone of wanting you dead?”

“Half the people I know — if they knew what I’d done.”

“What you’ve done is courageous and good,” Stone said. “Has it occurred to you that, if it became known, you would gain many new friends?”

“You mean Democrats?”

“I mean people who will admire what you’ve done. Many of them might be Republicans who don’t like what’s happening to their party.”

“I’m not really cut out for being a rebel.”

“The rebelling is already behind you. You just have to figure out what you want and go do it.”

“They won’t let me do that.”

“Who are ‘they’?”

“Powerful people who don’t show their faces to the world.”

“For every one of them who wants to destroy you, there’ll be others who want to help.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

“If you’re concerned for your safety, I can arrange protection. If you want to disappear, I own the house next door, and there’s a comfortable guest apartment that you’re welcome to, for as long as it takes.”

Hills, who had been staring disconsolately into the middle distance, suddenly focused, maybe even brightened a bit. “You’d do that for me?”

“I would.”

“All right,” he said, standing up. “I have to make some arrangements first and get my things from my hotel.”

“My advice is not to tell anyone where you are, at least for a couple of days,” Stone said. “And then think carefully about who you tell.”

“There’s only one person,” Hills said.

Stone buzzed for Joan, and she came in. “Joan, this is Mr. Hills. He’s going to be staying next door for a while. Will you ask Helene to make sure the apartment is ready for him?”

“Of course,” Joan said.

“How long before you’ll be back?” Stone asked.

“An hour at the most,” Hills said.

“We’ll look forward to seeing you. Enter through the office door, and Joan will take you next door.”

Hills offered his hand, the first time he had done so, and Stone shook it.

“One other thing,” Hills said.

“Yes?”

“I made a recording of the meeting.”

“Good. You may need it.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Barrington.” Hills put on his coat and hat and left, looking relieved.

Hills walked up to Third Avenue and looked for a cab. His cell phone buzzed, and he checked the caller ID. “Hello?”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I’m going to stay in New York for a while. Got a pencil?”

“Yep.”

Hills gave him the address. “You can always reach me on my cell.”

“Let me give you some advice. Get one of those prepaid throwaway cell phones from an electronics shop, and don’t give the number to anyone but me.”

“I’ll do that right now,” Hills said. He hung up and walked up Third Avenue, looking for a place to buy the phone.

Stone tidied his desk, then walked into Joan’s office. “Did the congressman come back?”

“Is that what he is? No, he didn’t.”

Stone looked at his watch. “He said he’d be back inside an hour. It’s been nearly two.”

“What can I tell you?”

“Well, show him to the suite when he returns. I’m going upstairs for a while, then to dinner with Dino at Clarke’s.” Stone went up to his study, poured himself a drink, and settled in to watch the news. The anchorwoman finished a report, then turned to another camera. “This just in: there’s been a hit-and-run at the corner of Park Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street, and a man is dead. Don Kerr is at the scene.”

The live shot came up. “Deborah, the ambulance has just taken the man’s body away, and an officer told me that there was identification in his pockets, but they’re not releasing the name pending notification of next of kin. I have with me a gentleman who saw it happen.” He stuck the microphone in a man’s face.

“Yeah, I saw it. The guy was jaywalking, but there was no excuse to hit him. It could have been avoided.”

“What kind of car was it?”

“It was black — an SUV, I think.”

“Did you see the license plate?”

“Just a glimpse. It wasn’t a New York plate.”

“Have the police interviewed you?”

“Yeah, I talked to two detectives.”

Kerr turned back to the camera. “That’s it, Deborah, until we get an ID on the victim.”

Stone tuned out what Deborah was saying now. He had an awful feeling that he didn’t want to give in to. He called Dino.

“Hey,” Dino said.

“Hey. Do you keep track of hit-and-runs?”

“Not personally, but we get a lot of them.”

“There was one this afternoon at Fifty-seventh and Park, and the TV said he had ID on him. Can you find out his name?”

“Call you right back.”

Stone switched to MSNBC and the Chris Matthews show, then he tugged at his drink and worried. Ten minutes passed, and the phone rang.

“Yes?”

“The guy’s ID says he was a U.S. congressman named Evan Hills.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Did you know him?”

“Barely.”

“Dinner tonight? I’m batching it.”

“Clarke’s at seven-thirty?”

“You’re on.” Dino hung up.

Stone called Carla Fontana. “I’ve got bad news,” he said to her.

“What?”

“Evan Hills is dead.”

“Oh, God.”

“Hit-and-run at Park and Fifty-seventh Street.”

“In New York?”

“Right. He came to see me earlier this afternoon.”

“What sort of frame of mind was he in?”

“Despondent, I’d say.”