Butterfly (78 page)

time when you called me Rachel.”

He stared at her, “How’s that again?”

“You know, Rachel. Don’t you remember a girl named Rachel, Mr. Mackay? Rachel

Dwyer?”

“I, uh…” He glanced at Bonner, who shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t, Miss Highland.

Who is she?”

Beverly spoke in a gentle, almost detached way. “Rachel Dwyer was a young girl you

picked up in El Paso thirty-seven years ago, Mr. Mackay. You took her to San Antonio

and put her in a whorehouse run by a woman named Hazel. Then you forced her to have

an abortion and made Hazel throw her out. Surely you remember her now, Mr. Mackay?”

Memory suddenly dawned behind his eyes. Danny licked his lips and said, “Well, no,

I can’t say I do. Is she another one of these sensation seekers who have climbed on the

scandal wagon?”

“No, Mr. Mackay. I told you, you used to call
me
Rachel. I am Rachel Dwyer.”

His eyes widened, and then narrowed. “You can’t be. Rachel was—”

“Ugly? Yes, I was. But plastic surgery took care of that. I used to have brown hair, too.”

He stared at her with his mouth open.

“Do you still not remember me? I have a tattoo on the inside of my thigh. You put it

there. It’s a small butterfly….”

“I—” His voice caught. He looked again at Bonner, who now had a strange look on

his face. “I don’t understand, Miss Highland. What is this all ab—”

“Please call me Rachel. I want to hear it. For old times’ sake.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s very simple, Danny. After I left Texas I came to California. I changed my name

and my looks. And now here we are, together again.”

Beverly could see the pulse throb in his neck. Color drained from his face as compre-

hension finally dawned. “You?” he whispered. “
You’re Rachel?”

“Yes, Danny. After all these years. Did you think I was dead?”

“Well, I…” He shifted in his chair,

“You hadn’t thought about me at all, had you?” she said softly.

“Well, it was so long ago, and all. Well…” He swallowed. “I’ll be. Rachel Dwyer.” He

laughed nervously. “Well, what a reunion this is! Why didn’t you tell me before? I mean,

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why keep it a secret? What with all the money you’ve put into my ministry and the polit-

ical support, you could have told me. Rachel!” he said too loudly. “This is a happy

moment!”

“Is it?”

“Well, yes. I mean, we’re a team again, just like we were all those years ago. To think

that you’ve come here tonight to help me. Praise the Lord for his miracles, Rachel. He

caused your heart to forgive me. I know I did wrong, making you have that abortion.

And, believe me, I got down on my knees afterward and repented. I went to Hazel’s house

and she said you’d gone and I went looking for you.”

“You did? Why didn’t you look in New Mexico, where I came from? Or in

Hollywood, where I’d always talked about searching for my sister.”

“Well, uh, I…”

“It’s all right, Danny,” she said gently. “It happened so long ago and we’ve come so far

since then.”

“Yes we have, praise the Lord. And what a good Christian woman you are, Rachel, to

let bygones be bygones and come to my aid in this hour of need.”

“Oh,” she said with a small frown, “I’m afraid you misunderstand, Danny. I never for-

gave you for what you did. And I haven’t come here tonight to rescue you.”

He stared at her.

“I came here to tell you a few things that I think you need to know.”

Beverly sat in the wing chair, the picture of relaxed confidence. She held her flat eel-

skin purse in her lap and spoke softly. There was no anger in her voice, no coldness, no

hate. She was just a woman quietly telling a story.

“On the night you kicked me out of your car and left me to bleed to death, Danny,

you told me to remember the name Danny Mackay. Well, I did. And I made a vow that

someday I would have my revenge. I have lived these past thirty-five years with no other

thought in my head except to see you pay for what you did to me.”

He squirmed a little. Perspiration broke out on his forehead. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am dead serious, Danny. Every breath I took brought me one breath closer to see-

ing you destroyed.”

“Why wait so long?” he said in a tight voice. “You had plenty of opportunities in the

past to strike at me.”

“That’s true. But I wanted you to fall from a great height, Danny. I also didn’t want

you to be able to slither out of this one, and go on to hurt more people. I had to be cer-

tain, I had to be positive that I had enough on you to hang you.” She leaned forward,

clutching the purse. “So I allowed you to continue your pursuit of power until I decided

the time was right.”

“What are you talking about? You
allowed
me? You didn’t allow me anything! Where I

got, I got on my own!”

“Oh yes, you made it this far on your own, Danny, but only because
I let you.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Am I? Think back to 1972. In your Houston church. A man died and you thought

you’d brought him back to life. That was my doing, Danny. I staged the whole thing.”

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Danny looked at Bonner.

“I was in Houston that night, Danny,” she went on. “The man who died was an actor

friend of mine. He’s very good at death scenes. Another actor played the doctor and a

friend of mine played the wife. We staged the whole thing, Danny, and you fell for it.”

His hands gripped the arms of his chair; his knuckles were white. “For what purpose?”

“To have the ammunition to stop you if you should try that stunt again. Fooling all

those innocent people with your tricks! So I staged one more, with people who would be

willing to admit it was all a fraud, if it became necessary to do so.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“And Fred Banks. I bought him off a month after you brought him back to the United

States. He told me how you had worked it all, how you had deceived the American people

with your charade, how you gave illegal arms to an Arab king. And, finally, Royal Farms,

Danny. I created Royal Farms just for you to buy. I loaded it with such secondary holdings

as a men’s clothing store, a dirty magazine, and massage parlors, counting on the fact that

you would be too greedy and too busy and too wrapped up in yourself to sufficiently inves-

tigate the company you had just bought. And you never let me down, Danny.”

The air conditioner clicked on just then and a low hum filled the silence. Cold air

wafted through the wall vents, gently stirring the drapes and chilling the occupants of the

room. Outside, Los Angeles sweltered on this sultry June evening; in the lobby below,

reporters loosened their ties and mopped their brows, waiting for Beverly Highland.

“You’re mad,” Danny growled. “I don’t have to listen to any of this.”

He started to rise, but sat back down when she said, “You do have to listen, Danny,

because what happens next is up to you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everything that has gone on in this room is known only by the four of us. It can stay

that way, and I can continue to be your avid supporter, if you’ll do one thing.”

“What’s that?”

She clutched the purse to herself; her heart was racing so fast she was nearly breathless.

“You have to beg me,” she said softly. “Beg me to help you, Danny.”

He shot to his feet. “Go fuck yourself.”

“That won’t save you, will it? Think about it, Danny. When I walk out of this room,

the press is going to want a statement from me. It’s up to you what that statement will be.

You see, Danny, I can clear your name. I have proof in this purse that you have been

framed, that everything that has come out this past week was designed to destroy you. If

I hand it over to the press, you’ll be a hero, Danny. People will see you as an innocent vic-

tim and they’ll worship you as a martyr. You’ll go even higher from here, Danny. There

will be no stopping you then. But…” She paused. “It is also in my power to ruin you

completely. One word from me, and the world will turn its back on you, Danny, and

you’ll be left to rot. Which will it be?”

He looked at Bonner, whose face mirrored his own fear. Then he looked at the chauf-

feur standing by the door. An old man. Guarding a frail woman.

“Don’t even think of it, Danny,” she said. “Violence will not save you now. Do as I ask

and you walk out of here an exonerated man.”

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“Go to Hell.”

“I suggest you comply with the lady’s request,” the chauffeur suddenly said, surprising

Danny.

“You keep out of this.”

“I don’t think so,” Manning said as he walked slowly toward Danny. “Now, I know

what’s going through your head right now, boy. I can read you like a child’s book. You’re

thinking that she’s making all this up and that you can sweet-talk your way out of it. You

think she’s insane and that she can’t hurt you. Well, boy, not only can she hurt you, but I

can as well.”

Danny snorted. “You! What could you possibly do to hurt me?”

“Well,” Manning said quietly, “I can tell those reporters out there the answer to the

question they’ve been asking you. Which is, whatever became of Billy Bob Magdalene?”

Danny narrowed his eyes. The police had already harassed him with that one, and he’d

told them about how he had bought the bus honestly and legally from Billy Bob and had

left the drunken old preacher in a town where Billy Bob had decided to retire. And the

police had believed him—no reason not to. “You don’t know anything about Billy Bob,”

he said.

“You thought Billy Bob Magdalene was old when you knew him,” Beverly’s chauffeur

said. “But he was only forty-three years old when you linked up with him. That was

thirty-four years ago, which would make him about seventy-seven today. And his real

name wasn’t Magdalene, it was Manning. Come now, don’t you two pudknockers recog-

nize me?”

A shocked silence filled the room. Bonner slowly got to his feet, his mouth hanging

open. Danny stared at the old man with wide eyes.

“You boys left me for dead,” Billy Bob went on. “And I darned near did die out in that

desert. But some tourists who had lost their way came by and got me just in time. They

put me in a hospital in Odessa, and there I remained for sixteen years, crippled and

demented from too much sun and no water. And then one day, just like that”—he

snapped his fingers—“my memory came back, and the first sane words I uttered were

‘Danny Mackay.’ By chance my little story appeared in a small newspaper, and Miss

Highland here got wind of it because of a clipping service she uses. She drove out to that

hospital and had a long talk with me. She rescued me from that prison and gave me a rea-

son to live. To last long enough to see the day when you pay for what you did.”

Thunderstruck, Danny stumbled back and fell into his chair.

“You see,” Billy Bob said as he went to stand behind Beverly, “it’s all true. Every word

of it. She has watched you all your life, boy, followed your every slimy move. Son, you

didn’t even fart without her knowing it!”

The air conditioner went on and off; sounds in the next room came through the

closed door in a muffled roar; telephones rang in the distance; a siren wailed down

Wilshire Boulevard. Beverly sat patiently in the wing chair, her purse and its precious

contents hugged to her breast. She was in no hurry; she had waited long enough, she

could wait a few minutes more.

Finally, dry-mouthed and white-faced, Danny said, “Rachel, don’t do this to me.”

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“You’ll have to do better than that, Danny.”

“Christ, do you really want me to beg?”

“Yes, Danny,” she said, her voice growing cold and hard now. “As I once begged you.

Think of that innocent girl lying on the abortionist’s table. Picture her terrified face, hear

her voice pleading with you to let her keep her baby. And then you do the same for me.

Let me see your fear, let me hear you beg to spare your life.”

Danny’s hand shot out for the phone by his chair.

“Do that,” she said, “and you’ll be destroyed before you leave this room!”

His hand fell away. “Please, Rachel,” he whispered. “Please don’t do this to me.”

“That’s not enough, Danny.”

“Oh God,” he cried. “Don’t do this to me!”

She slowly rose and looked down at him. “I’ve waited thirty-five years for this

moment. I’ve sacrificed and denied myself just for this moment. I won’t be cheated,

Danny.”

He clutched his hands together and slid to his knees. “Please, Rachel. Please save me.”

“Let me see the tears you’re so famous for. You produce them well enough for the TV

cameras. Now produce them for me.”

“Jesus, you can’t do this to me! Please, Rachel.
Please!”

“God,” she said softly. “You make me sick.”

He was crying in earnest now. “I’ll do anything, Rachel. Anything. Just get me out of

this. Don’t let them crucify me! I couldn’t bear it. Not after all these years! I couldn’t bear

the disgrace. I couldn’t live with it!”

She gazed down at him for a moment longer, then she walked toward the door. As she