Уильям Макгиверн - Summitt

“A vacation for Shana? It’s worth considering.”

There were pieces that didn’t fit together, Selby thought, a puzzle whose outlines he couldn’t define, whose very existence might be the work of his nerves or imagination.

“But you’re not considering it, are you, Mr. Selby?”

“No, I’m not.”

“I didn’t think so. All right, let’s cut out the bullshit. You’re ass-deep in trouble. You’re dealing with rich, powerful people. There’s nothing to negotiate here. You’ve got no options. No, I’ll amend that. You can determine to some extent just how badly you and your daughter will be hurt.”

“How do we go about that?”

“First, we want a letter from your daughter admitting she was mistaken in every detail and particular of her charges against Earl Thomson.”

“That’s for starters?”

“Correct. Then I’ll need a sworn statement from you, Selby, repudiating your daughter’s accusations and expressing your regret at the distress her malicious actions caused Earl Thomson and his family. Also—”

“Save your breath, Davic. You’re bluffing. You said too much.”

Davic tried to recover. “Don’t bank on that, Selby. I told you these people are rich and powerful. That’s a distinction even smart people aren’t always aware of. Money can influence things. Power can destroy them. Let me give you a historical example. Adolf Hitler stipulated certain conditions to Neville Chamberlain. In a meeting at Munich he told the prime minister of Great Britain that the issues of Poland, Poland itself, in fact, were not negotiable, could not and would not be placed on the agenda. Chamberlain agreed. Poland was not negotiable. Now that’s power, Selby, and it has nothing to do with money. A country centuries old, with an empire of forests and lakes and mountains, a country of soldiers and artists, scientists, great traditions, Copernicus, Pulaski, millions of human beings — and one man, not a god or a conqueror from a distant planet but one human being who might have been pulling up his pants after defecating, or poking a bit of rotting meat with a toothpick, that man announced that Poland was not subject to negotiations — couldn’t be discussed, mentioned, talked about in any way at all because he’d made up his mind and that was the end of it — for Poland, for Chamberlain and damn near for the rest of the world... We’re not all the same... I’ve no talent for power, I decided to become rich. What was your choice, Selby?”

“I never had your problem.”

“Mr. Thomson told me you were a professional athlete, a jock was his word. Wasn’t there a kind of power in that? Millions of people watch those games and millions of dollars are bet on them. I recall reading about a teammate of yours — Goldbirn, I believe it was.” Davic nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, Goldbirn, Jerry Goldbirn, that was his name. Wasn’t he involved in some dubious financial deals?”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Selby said untruthfully.

“I thought he’d agreed to throw some games for people in Chicago and Las Vegas. Of course, it might have been just rumors. But if they were true, it was fortunate Goldbirn was injured in practice before he could compromise himself.”

Selby watched the red lights on the windows and thought about how this lawyer with the masked eyes had checked on Sarah and Jerry Goldbirn...

Selby remembered Jerry going up for the pass on a spring afternoon in dummy scrimmage, his hands reaching for the ball with lazy precision. And he remembered lowering his head and hitting Goldbirn — a tap would have told the backfield coach he’d beaten the play — but Selby had hit Jerry at full speed with his legs driving, a blind-side shot that had broken Goldbirn’s collarbone and four of his ribs and put him out for the rest of the season...

Davic said, “Well, it ended happily enough for Mr. Goldbirn, didn’t it? Virtue enforced by accident, one might say. Or was that how it was, Mr. Selby? An accident?”

“It was a mix-up in the defensive signals,” Selby again replied untruthfully. “I had a play contact sign. Goldbirn wasn’t expecting it.”

“So he sat out the season,” Davic said, “and never had the chance to throw a game, even if he’d wanted to.”

“Rumors, Mr. Davic.”

“Then in a circuitous fashion,” Davic said, “you saved Goldbirn’s ass, didn’t you, Selby? Was he grateful?”

“What you’re asking, Davic, is whether I was involved in a payoff.”

“You’re a hostile person, Selby.”

“Maybe. What happened to Goldbirn was an accident. But when people get in each other’s way, even accidentally, they can get hurt.”

“In professional football, you mean?”

“That’s what you’re talking about, isn’t it?”

“Tell me, were you expecting that second police car?”

“What matters,” Selby said, “is that you weren’t, Mr. Davic. And neither was Thomson.”

A scream sounded somewhere above them, cutting the tension like a falling knife. The lawyer stood so quickly that his legal pad fell to the floor. The doors from the foyer were pushed open and Thomson walked into the study, his face scored with anger. A sheet of parchment paper with a black seal attached to it was crushed in his hand.

“It’s a warrant,” he told Davic, and shoved the paper at him. “You hear me? There’s a DA here and one of Slocum’s cops, a detective named Wilger. They’re actually trying to hang it on Earl... the rape, kidnapping—”

Davic took the warrant and scanned it. “It’s in order, Mr. Thomson. But I can’t accept service. Bail has been waived.”

“They’re lying . Earl’s fingerprints... they say they’re all over the garage at Vinegar Hill, that’s what they’re tying to tell me.”

Davic said, “The preliminary hearing is set for nine tomorrow in Magistrate Teague’s court in Muhlenburg. We can reserve any plea until—”

“I sent Slocum over there already. My son’s not going to line up with a bunch of winos and vagrants.”

The screaming upstairs had stopped; the only sound in the study was Thomson’s heavy breathing.

“Your son has to honor this warrant. He’ll be a fugitive from justice if—”

Dom Lorso had begun to raise his voice at someone in the foyer and Selby heard a familiar voice, a lighter one, trying to interrupt the outbursts.

The front doors of Thomson’s house were opened, and the wind and rain swept around Dorcas Brett. When Selby entered the foyer he was struck by Lorso’s rage and by the whiteness of her face.

Lorso turned around when he heard Selby, but his eyes went past him to the second floor landing where a woman in the shadows watched from a wheelchair. A stocky man in white trousers and a white shirt stood behind her.

Thomson and Davic came in then, the lawyer holding Thomson’s arm. “As your attorney,” he said insistently, “I don’t want you to say another word, George. Not one word.”

Thomson shook off Davic’s hand. “I’ll say what I want. Selby, you get out of my house. Your daughter is lying, you hear? ”

“Listen to your lawyer—”

“I told you to get out of here. I’ll make you and her regret you ever started this.”

Selby said, “You’re making it easier for me to do something I’m trying hard not to. You’d better understand that.”

“George,” Davic said tensely. “Don’t say anything else.”

“If you do,” Selby said, “if you say one more word, Thomson, I’ll do what I’m trying not to. I’ll go up those stairs and kick in doors until I find him.”

For an instant the atmosphere was volatile; any sudden movement could have touched it off.