Hostage (3 page)

Todd took another sip of coffee, set down his cup, and settled back in the chair. “You know, I don’t know what’s harder to believe—that he actually wrote this book or that people are really buying it!”

“What I can’t believe is that they found twenty-five suckers willing to pay five thousand bucks each to have lunch with him. He’s such a turkey.”

“Which actually makes him an easy target,” said Todd. “But I don’t want to be sloppy.” Todd checked his watch. “Listen, I gotta get going. It’s not every day that I get to talk to someone like Johnny Clariton.”

“Thank God for that.”

“You know, I’m going to have a hard time being objective.”

“Why bother?” Rawlins shook his head. “The way he goes on and on about the ‘homosexual agenda’ and the ‘gay disease,’ why should you have to behave responsibly?”

“Those are radical words for a cop,” said Todd.

Still, queers everywhere were rallying against Johnny Clariton’s calling AIDS the gay disease, and Todd was going to do what he could to amplify the comment, to make that the marker of his true values. But Todd had to be clever about it, intelligent, direct, sincere. He had to lead the interview down a particular path and make sure that Clariton said it all over again and said it even more horribly than before. And Todd could do it. In his own mind he’d conducted the interview more than a dozen times; in his imagination he’d nudged Clariton this way and that, antagonized, flattered, coerced, charmed, and finally caught the congressman in a trap of his own words.

Right. Todd stood up, looked out over the frozen lake. Curt had been one of Rawlins’s closest friends, and while Todd hadn’t known him very well, watching that man’s life waste and shrivel away had affected Todd like nothing else. He’d never felt sadder, more horrified, nor more proud, all the while wondering why and how he’d escaped, why he hadn’t made that one innocent and disastrous step.

Which was why Todd was going to make sure that Johnny Clariton would be held hostage to his words about AIDS and gays for the rest of his political career.

“Here I go,” said Todd, caught up by the task ahead and rising to his feet.

“Hey, I hate to bring up the nitty-gritty of our lives at this particular moment,” said Rawlins, wiping his nose with a tissue, “but I’m going to do a couple of loads of laundry. Is all your stuff—”

“Yes, Mr. Policeman, I promise all my dirty clothes are in the hamper,” replied Todd, who’d finally, after much nagging, quit dumping everything in a pile in the walk-in closet. “Now, you get yourself to the doctor, okay? You can’t fly to New York next week with sinuses as messed up as yours.” Todd went around, kissed Rawlins on the forehead. “You’re the best.”

For a brief instant they grabbed hands and squeezed. The upcoming trip had been Todd’s idea, not only as an attempt to perk up Rawlins but a way to further cement their relationship. Hoping to make it as romantic a getaway as possible, Todd had already made reservations at a swank Midtown hotel and his favorite restaurant down in SoHo, as well as ordered tickets for a Broadway show. Now it all depended on whether a third course of antibiotics could clear Rawlins’s forehead.

Todd kissed Rawlins again, then turned, going quickly for the front hall, where his briefcase sat by the door.

From his chair Rawlins called, “Let me know what His Honorable Congressman, the jerk, has to say. And don’t forget your tie!”

“It’s right here in my briefcase.”

Suddenly something black shot in front of Todd. Watching as Girlfriend darted into the kitchen, he paused.

No. He didn’t believe in bad luck, did he?

If only beauty could
kill.

She fantasized about gunning him down with a double-barrel stare of her icy blue eyes. She thought about tripping him with one of her long, long legs and then stabbing him with her pointed heels. She visualized herself pouncing on him and clawing him to death.

Neah, clawing wouldn’t do. Once elegant and much admired, her nails were now in shit shape, and for sure she’d break one. Besides, it was all set up for later anyway.

As she walked up Lake Street in south Minneapolis, the breeze filtering through her coiffed blond hair, Tina pulled up the collar of her black wool coat. The sun was out, most of the snow was gone, and the ice on the lakes was melting, but there was still a bit of a chill hovering over the city. She wasn’t like these kids, these die-hard Minnesotans, like that one over there on the other side of the street bombing toward Lake Calhoun on Rollerblades, wearing nothing but a T-shirt and some long shorts! Or those people over there at the coffee shop, sitting outside in open jackets and drinking coffee, soaking up the sun as if it were July. Oh, no. She still hadn’t shaken the chill of this past winter, and she didn’t feel as if she ever would, particularly given how lousy she’d been feeling. Her entire soul was trembling, it seemed, which was why her coat was buttoned up snugly and why she was still wearing her leather gloves, not to mention the pale yellow turtleneck. Perhaps instead of the tasteful cream-colored skirt and white stockings, however, she should have worn slacks, something a little more casual as well as warmer. Then again, thanks to her years as a top model in New York, Tina knew how to dress for any occasion. And today, after all, she was going to see one of the most important men in the United States.

Exactly, she thought as she neared the place. One of the most important men and arguably the biggest asshole of them all. She’d never thought about killing anyone before, never, not a woman like her, once beloved in the fashion industry even more for her congenial Minnesota temperament than her wholesome beauty. But this guy was pushing it too far, his ideas too radical. No doubt about it, if she could kill one person it would be him. After all, someone had to stop him. Something had to be done.

Tina came to the corner of Lake and Hennepin, pausing right in front of the large Gap store. Outside of downtown, this was the busiest intersection in the city, with two- and three-story brick buildings filling each of the corners. And while the neighborhood had once been rather borderline, it was now booming, the hippest of the hip flocking to the trendy restaurants and shops. Even bored suburbanites, ever in search of new shopping, frequented the neighborhood. Especially today. Mr. Jerk himself was in there signing his book, and there were sure to be hundreds in line waiting for his smarmy autograph.

Crossing the street in a crowd of twenty or so, Tina could tell that the flow was definitely toward him. In this block-long set of old brick buildings, a small shopping mall had been carved, and as she ducked out of the sunny, almost-spring day and entered the complex, she could tell that everyone was going in and no one was going out. Great, she thought. So much for Hubert Humphrey and Walter Mondale. So much for the bleeding-heart liberal Minnesotan. No wonder this guy had to be gotten rid of.

Up ahead the central atrium of the mall was packed. So, she thought, the crowd was so big they’d moved the entire shebang out of the bookstore. Tina drifted to the side, peered around, saw a huge line snaking this way and that. Must be, what, four, five hundred people standing there waiting to meet him, Mister Big Shot Congressman. Did all these people really agree with him? Sure, the medical system in the United States was all messed up and as expensive as hell, but did they really want Medicare slashed and medical assistance all but eliminated? What kind of country was this anyway? Where were our values?

Tina hummed that old ABBA song, quietly singing, “Money, money, money, makes a rich man cry.”

Shaking her head in disgust, she glanced to the side and caught her own reflection in a store window. She dabbed at her cheeks, tried to smooth her foundation, which she’d put on far too heavily in an attempt to cover the sores. Dear Lord, how was it possible to have aged as much as she had in the past year? With her dry blond hair and fading skin—what horrible color!—she looked as if she were over fifty instead of not even forty. Her pal Elliot was right. If her skin cracked and shriveled any more she was going to have to switch her name to Patina.

Forget how exhausted you are, she told herself. Just stroll along. Admire the lovely shoes in the window. What nice pumps! And the sandals! What fun colors! She casually moved to the next display window, glanced over, saw the crowd, checked out their clothes. Lots of khakis and loafers. Lots of women with perky hair. All of them white. And all of them Republicans. Blech.

But… not much security.

That was what she really needed to find out. Brushing a strand of hair out of her face, she moved into the open courtyard, glanced up at the balcony, then scanned the stairs. There were a couple of cops over there, another one or two by the newsstand. She surveyed the long line of eager fans. No, there didn’t appear to be any FBI folk. And, most important, there weren’t any Secret Service men. Of that she was fairly sure, because when the President was last in town there were guys with mirrored sunglasses and earpieces everywhere. No, it was just as they thought. This guy, His Honorable Johnny Clariton, wouldn’t get Secret Service protection until he announced his presidential bid, which everyone expected he would do in a month or so.

So let’s just see how close I can get, mused Tina.

She sauntered forward, her heels clicking on the tile floor, and came around a column. The line of fans twisted all the way through the atrium and down to the far end, where a mass of people were glommed around a low table. Tina bent over a bit, peered between a couple of people. And there he was. Her heart jumped. She’d seen him on TV countless times, doing his blather on CBS/NBC/ABC and CNN/CNN/CNN about how the country was in deep trouble with this and that and how we needed to return to the family values that had made this country great. She’d seen him on the cover of
Newsweek,
his handsome face lit up, the index finger of his right hand raised high as he lectured on the problems of the national deficit, medical care, and, of course, AIDS funding, stating bluntly that now that so much progress had been made on the “gay disease,” research should really be left to the drug companies since they were already reaping such enormous profits. But this… this was different. Seated there at a banquet table, smiling endlessly as he signed book after book, he definitely seemed not larger than life but… small. Maybe that’s why Johnny Clariton was so popular. With light-brown hair rimming his bald head, a square jaw, and a charming, white smile, he looked like the boy next door. And for that reason quite possibly the next President of the United States of America.

My, how she hated him, thought Tina with a fake smile as she moved into the atrium. A leader that would inspire the best in people he was not.

So just how close could she get?

“Excuse me, can I get past you?” said Tina to a young woman with a stroller. “This is so exciting I can’t stand it.”

“Isn’t he wonderful?” replied the woman.

“Well, I just can’t believe it.” Tina’s heart clutched when she glanced down at the stroller and saw a little girl, small and blond and adorable, for she reminded Tina so much of her own daughter. “I can’t believe John Clariton is right here in Uptown.”

“I know, that’s why I came.”

Her voice sweet yet raspy, Tina begged her way closer, maneuvering in and around clumps of people, around the line of book buyers, around a fountain, and almost right there, right up to the table where the Honorable Jerk was signing his tome. She paused once to catch her breath—she’d been running a fever forever and she really should be home in bed—then moved on, her heart beating faster and faster. Dear God, she was so near to him. Her hand, beaded with droplets of sweat, slipped into the pocket of her coat and clutched a Kleenex. If only it were the syringe. If only she could do it right now.

Suddenly a mountain of a man slid right in front of her.

“That’s close enough, ma’am.”

Forcing the classiest of smiles, Tina looked up into gorgeous dark eyes and said, “What?”

“This is a book-signing, ma’am, and all these people are waiting to speak to Mr. Clariton and have their books autographed. I’m afraid you’ll have to step back a bit.”

“Oh.” She looked him up and down, noting his chestnut brown hair, his broad shoulders. “Oh, I see.”

“If you’d like to buy the book they’re selling it right over there,” he said, pointing to a table by the fountain.

“And the congressman wrote it? What’s it about?” she asked, even though she knew all too well and was perfectly disgusted by it.

“It’s a science fiction novel.”

“Really? How very interesting. Do you work at the bookstore here? Have you read the book?” She lowered her voice and her lips pursed into a sly grin. “Just because he’s a member of congress doesn’t mean he can write. Is it any good?”

“No, I don’t work at the bookstore, but a lot of people like the book.”

“Oh.” Trying to appear innocent but titillated, like many of the suburban matrons here, she asked, “So are you his bodyguard?”

“Something like that.”

“How fascinating.”

“Lyle?” called a woman from behind Clariton’s table.

He turned, listened to some apparent orders, then turned back to Tina. “Excuse me, but the congressman’s aide would like everyone to move back a bit.”

“Of course.”

Okay, okay, thought Tina as she retreated. So now wasn’t the time—not that it was supposed to be anyway. No. Just stop by, scope things out. See what you can find out. That was her job, that was what they’d instructed. And that was exactly what she’d done. Mission accomplished.