Crimson Eve (23 page)
The other side of Vince knew that Hanley wouldn’t be the first powerful man to fall victim to his own sexual weaknesses.
But a US senator. One on his way to the White House. Not exactly the kind of man whose office Vince could waltz into with mere allegations. Especially during the campaign. The media would rip into the story like a pack of hungry wo
lves. Talking heads would have a heyday, the Republicans crying scandal, the Democrats screaming the senator’s defense. Hanley would deny everything, claim smear tactics. Vince and his family, Carla, Kanner Lake in general — so many people he cared about —would be caught in the middle.
Vince lifted his head, pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. Time to get to work. He needed to find one missing woman and protect another. And if all these allegations were true, in the end — bottom line — he would need proof.
Three miles from the car dealership, Tony lay in the Durango, knees drawn up, dragging in oxygen. He’d driven to safety, then crawled into the backseat and collapsed like a marionette with cut strings, groin still spiking pain. Murderous rage chewed a hole in his heart. By the time this was over, he was going to kill
everybody
involved. Carla Radling, Paul Jilke, that car salesman — and anyone else that got in his way.
He screwed his eyes shut, remembering every detail of the salesman’s face. The kid was lying. Tony
knew
it.
His cell phone rang — Jilke’s tone. Tony lifted his head off the seat and growled. Let the man call ’til doomsday, he didn’t care. Tony would answer when he was good and ready.
Except that Robyn and Timmy were fleeing town about now.
Anxiety streaked through Tony. He fumbled in his pants pocket for his phone. Willed his voice to sound normal.
“Hello.”
“Hello to
you
, Tony.” Jilke’s voice was low and cold. “Guess what — a friend of mine picked up two people you know. Your wife and son. Seems they were about to fly the coop. Any idea why they’d want to do that?”
The words hit Tony like an avalanche. He sat straight up, ignoring his searing pain. “Jilke, you hurt my family, and you’re
dead
, you hear? I’ll tell everything I know, I’ll expos
e everybody, including your favorite man, Hanley. I don’t care if I go down, I
don’t care
, but you
will not
hurt my family and get away with it!”
“Temper, temper.” Jilke pulled in a slow, smug breath. Tony wanted to reach through the phone and rip out the man’s vocal cords.
“Let’s get down to business, shall we.” Jilke’s tone turned to steel. “I want to know it
all
. Everything you’ve done, every lie you’ve told me. And
maybe
if you come clean with me, when you’ve done your job you’ll get your family back. Otherwise, you can count on not seeing them again.”
Tony ground his teeth. Rage told him to hurl the phone out the window. Rationality told him to keep cool, do whatever Jilke asked. They would sort this out later, man to man, once Robyn and Timmy were safe.
He slumped back against the car seat — and told Jilke what he wanted to know. Every bit of it. Jilke listened without interruption.
When Tony was done, silence pulsed over the line like blood from a wound.
“Listen to me, Tony.” Jilke’s words were the dead calm of a man beyond fury. “Change cars fast, then get back and start surveillance on that dealership. I think you’re right — the kid knows something. He’s your only link to our target right now.
Don’t
let him out of your sight. I’ve got to check into a few things here, and I’ll call you back. Don’t even
think
about not answering the phone.”
“Wait, I want to talk to my — ”
The line clicked in Tony’s ear.
Paul Jilke’s hand trembled as he punched in the number to one of his men. The men no one else knew about, nor did they even know each other. He’d found them over the years as situations warranted — people he trusted, ruthless enough to carry out his commands without complaint or question. Greedy enough to allow their silence to be bought.
Jilke knew he was not alone in what he did. Successful politicians like Bryson Hanley didn’t rocket to the top without someone watching their backside. “Protect your man” was the ancient philosophy of those in Jilke’s shoes — and with Bryson Hanley he’d had a lot to protect. A brilliant politician, charmer of the voter. And Hanley cared about the common folks; he truly did. He would make a strong president, the kind the US needed. Jilke would be at his side when the last votes were counted, when the victory was announced, when the confetti fell. Like Hanley, he had worked all his life for those glorious moments.
But like many men of strength before him, Hanley’s soul had been woven with a fatal flaw. Fatal, that is, were it not for Jilke’s protection.
The phone rang once in his ear. Jilke pictured Hanley coming in the door of his Washington office tomorrow, heady with the poll results, confident in his trajectory. Ignorant of those things of which he must remain ignorant.
Hanley had committed a most egregious error, one that stunned even Jilke, who knew his chameleon abilities so well. He had kept a fact — a very important fact — from Jilke for sixteen years. Only the blurting of a flustered and frightened Tanya Evans had enlightened Jilke with the news.
He’d acted immediately, confident that fate had alerted him at the right moment. Any further in the campaign, and were such news to leak it would devastate the entire Hanley camp. Jilke had not told Hanley he’d learned the truth. He simply took it upon himself to clean up the mess.
The phone picked up. “Bruce here.”
Jilke kept his voice even. He would need a double dose of antianxiety meds tonight. “Where’s your target, Bruce?”
“At work. Been watching all day.”
“How do you know?”
“Her car’s still in the parking garage.”
Jilke closed his eyes. “You telling me you’ve been watching her
car
?”
“That’s how she got here.”
He flexed his jaw. If his fear proved true, this guy was as good as dead. “Do me a favor if you value your life.” His tone flattened. “Call her office and see if she’s there. I don’t care what story you give the receptionist, just get to her. Call me right back.”
He snapped his phone closed and waited an interminable three minutes. Too long. By the time his return call came, Jilke knew what he would hear.
“She’s not there.” Shock wavered Bruce’s voice. The guy knew he’d pay. “They said she left at lunch and never came back.”
Jilke raged then. Yelled and screamed at the man’s pure, unadulterated
stupidity
. He knocked papers off his desk, stalked around his office. Spewed every cuss word he’d learned since childhood. When his anger finally drai
ned, leaving him spent and breathless, he threw himself in his desk chair, head pounding.
“Get to her house, see if she’s there. Then report back.” Jilke smacked off the line and slammed the cell down on his desk.
She wouldn’t be. He knew that. By now Tanya Evans, a.k.a. “Ellie,” would be halfway to Kanner Lake. Looking to meet up with Carla Radling, who
also happened to be missing
.
Two men after two women — and
both
of them screwed up?
How
could this happen? What dark fate had set such an unthinkable situation in motion?
If those two women met, Carla Radling would no longer keep silent. A mother’s wrath was the most furious of forces. Hanley could kiss his campaign good-bye.
Jilke yanked up his desk phone, punched in the two digits to his secretary. Not for years had he needed to do his own undercover work. But now all bets were off. Either those two women died — today — or his life, all he’d ever dreamed of, was over.
“Get me on a pl
ane to Spokane.
Now
.”
Collision
Carla drifted in the murky waters of half-sleep, the shore now near . . . now not . . . A wave lifted her up, edged her forward. She felt the swish of sand around her legs . . . the brush of soft ground beneath her . . .
Her eyes opened.
She blinked at a TV set, a white wall with a watercolor print of purple-grey mountains. A dresser with three drawers.
Reality flooded back.
Carla jerked her head toward the clock radio near the bed. 3:59. She’d been asleep for an hour and a half.
Her ankle felt wet. She sat up, examining the towel wrap she’d so carefully placed. The ice had melted and run out of the plastic, soaking the cloth. She moved the soggy pack aside and examined her ankle. A little less puffy. Throbbed less too. But not totally better, not by a long shot.
Sighing, she sank back against the pillows.
She needed to get up, get out of here. Rent a car, drive . . . away. Carla closed her eyes, searching for the energy to move. Every limb felt weighted to the bed, her blood like water. Her stomach rumbled. No doubt part of her tiredness was due to hunger. If she could just eat, she’d find the strength to get up. But this hotel didn’t have room ser vice.
Carla laid a hand against her forehead. A tear blurred one eye and rolled down her temple. Where was she supposed to go? What could she do to make this end?
How long before Thornby found her here?
No reason he should find her. No one knew where she was but Brandon.
That’s one person too many
.
What had she been thinking, letting him hear the false name she used, the room she’d been assigned? She’d just been too exhausted, in too much pain to care.
But so what if Brandon knew? He’d helped her here. He’d been kind. Beyond that, he didn’t believe her story. The guy thought she was nutty as a loon and probably wouldn’t give her a second thought. He had cars to sell.
She told herself to get up. But still couldn’t do it.
Carla shifted her head on the pillow, and her eyes fell on the television remote, sitting near the clock radio. Absently, she picked it up, clicked on the power. The screen spritzed to life —some talk show. Keeping the volume low, she flipped channels until she landed on CNN. Two talking heads were discussing the presidential campaign. The picture switched to a scene of Bryson Hanley in a crowd, smiling and shaking dozens of the faithfuls’ hands, thrust toward him in hope of a touch.
Carla’s heart turned over.
She watched him grasp fingers, remembering when he’d held hers with such gentleness. Watched him gaze deep into the eyes of one voter after another, his expression the epitome of sincere promise. She’d seen him in action so many times over the years, and always she reacted the same. Remembering him in love, remembering him in hatred. Pulled toward his charisma, even as she knew it was all a sham.
How could he have gotten away with his two-facedness all these years?
At age sixteen she’d believed she was the only one. That’s what he’d wanted her to think. But as she learned the truth about Bryson Hanley, as she grew into adulthood, Carla saw clearly what she could not see then. Hanley was a womanizer. He’d no doubt had many affairs. Were any others with teenagers? Had he gotten anyone else pregnant?
Carla thought back to the iciness of Bryson’s wife. The woman had mistrusted her from the moment they met. That too could have tipped Carla off, if she hadn’t been so starry-eyed. Mrs. My-Husband had known, all right. Probably not about the affair with Carla, or she’d have found herself without a job in a hurry. But the woman knew about her husband’s dalliances. She took one look at Carla’s face, her youth, and reacted with jealousy and fear. Carla smiled bitterly. Mrs. My-Husband had no doubt been thrilled to hear she’d gotten pregnant by her teenage boyfriend.
The news flashed from scene to scene of Bryson while the pundits discussed his rise to fame. Bryson at his desk in DC. Speaking to a group of business people in his home state of Washington. Addressing a college graduating class. Breaking ground on a new building that would house unwed mothers and their children. Laughing with his son, his arm around his daughter’s shoulder —
Carla snapped off the TV.