Unfinished Business (30 page)

“Did you have to kill her?” Erica screamed at him, tears rolling down her face. “She didn't know what she was doing. You had to have heard the crazy stuff she was saying—she didn't know what she was doing!” Erica gestured toward the gun. “The gun went off—she didn't have any more bullets. It was just that one! Did you have to—”

The man bent, pulling the gun from Mary's cold, dead hand. He opened the chamber, and even Erica could see.

The chamber was fully loaded, loaded enough to kill Erica several times over.

“Yep,” the guy said calmly. “I had to.”

They heard voices, the sounds of a search. “Over here! I've got her. She's okay!” He sighed. “Looks like my cover's blown this time,” he said, as if they weren't kneeling over the body of a desperately troubled girl. “Too bad. I liked this gig.”

“Are you sure you're up to this?”

Angelique was staring at her with a frown on her face.

“Yeah,” Erica agreed. “If Mark can do it, I'm sure I can. All I have to do is sit in the audience and listen.”

Nothing in her bags had seemed appropriate for tonight's debate, not after the tragedy of Mary's death. Not with the whole state—if not the nation—looking at her not just as Erica Johnson, but also as Mark Newman's intended bride. Shopping was out of the question: She'd attained a kind of bizarre celebrity status, and might have been mobbed with well-wishers and curiosity seekers. With her now was a very visible security detail.

Angelique had been dispatched with instructions: Find something that suited the event, Erica and her mood. Her purchases now lay spread across the bed: a long, full skirt in deep purple, matched with a gold blouse and short jacket; a neat black suit with a short skirt and long tailored jacket over a zebra-print blouse; and a fitted navy blue dress with a dramatic colorful scarf belt.

Erica considered the collection, but it was impossible. She'd have to try them on. The idea made her head hurt—but then everything made her head hurt. There was a lump the size of a golf ball still sticking out behind her right ear.

Erica sighed and sank onto the bed, fingering the purple skirt. Angelique had spent too much—she could tell by the expensive fabric, but the skirt looked comfortable and elegant. The kind of skirt that would lift around her knees when she moved.

She saw Mary, twirling in her skirt before she could stop the memory. She shuddered.

“I know,” Angelique murmured, sitting down beside her. “It's been a hell of a week.”

“You can say that again.” Erica pushed the purple away. There was no way she could wear it. Not tonight. She could still hear Dickey Joe's sobs when he'd been told what had happened. “
I shoulda gotten her some help. I shoulda gotten her some help…”

It seemed weird to be sitting here, on the edge of the fluffy bed back at Mrs. Dickson's Bed and Breakfast with Angelique. So much had happened since they'd arrived, and so much was still ahead of them, too. She concentrated on Mark, imagining what he must be feeling, knowing that in few short hours he would face a packed auditorium, a panel of questioners and his opponent in a final debate before the primary election. The rest of his state would have the privilege of watching it on television, or reading about it in the next day's papers.

Thanks to the doctors at Mercy Hospital, he was on the mend physically, the effects of the cyanide having been treated. Dr. Cortez had argued for at least another couple of days of bed rest, but Mark had refused. “After the election, I'll rest all you want,” he'd
told her, sounding like the old soldier he was. “The debate's just a few hours. I'll be okay.”

But emotionally Erica knew he wasn't okay. He was hurting, even though he seemed determined to cover everything over with a little more arrogance than usual, with a “can do” mask.

“I wouldn't give Malloy the satisfaction,” he grumbled when Bitsi suggested canceling the debate. “The people of this state need to see what a buffoon he is. We're doing it.”

“We could shorten it, though,” Bitsi proposed, and Erica noticed she sounded far more timid, far more deferential than normal. Like she knew exactly how much trouble she was in with the boss, and didn't want to further annoy him.

No sale.

“No changes,” Mark snapped at her and Bitsi nodded and backed away. For the first time, Erica had almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

“Your man is tough,” Angelique was saying now, calling her back to the present. She held up first one finger, and then another, and another. “Shot, poisoned—God only knows what else—and he's back on the campaign trail in a matter of hours.” She shook her braids. “Talk about taking a lickin' and keepin' on ticking. He's like—like—the Six Million Dollar Man.” She cocked an eyebrow at Erica. “You remember that show?”

Erica wanted to smile. She tried to picture Mark as Steve Austin (“We can rebuild him, make him better than he was”) but it was hard. Every time she blinked she saw Mary's crumpled form, the bright head scarf still wrapped around her blonde curls.

She shook her head, pushing the memory away. She looked down at the bed. The blue dress with its bright scarf was too great of a reminder of yesterday's ordeal.

That left the black suit.

I hope it fits
, she thought, pulling it toward her and removing it from its hanger. She stood up and slipped out of her shorts and pulled off her “Be the change you want to see” T-shirt.

“So,” she said stepping into the skirt and shifting the attention to her friend with a cheerful brightness she didn't feel. “It looks like
you've
got some new developments. Don't tell me. Chase Alexander is ‘Mr. Politics.' The guy you started chatting with on the Internet. Right?”

Angelique flushed. Now that the topic of conversation was her own business, her sassy, know-it-all certainty evaporated into a girlish giggle. “Can you believe that?”

“It's absolutely incredible.” Erica pulled on the jacket and buttoned it. “When did you figure it out?”

“On the plane. He took out his laptop and I took out mine and we started talking and it turned out we already knew each other!” she exclaimed. “Or at least sort of.” She sobered a little, her face growing serious. “You know, he's not the kind of man I would normally have even considered. You know: short, fat, white. But in the chats, I got to know him. How funny he is. How smart. So it didn't bother me as much that he looks the way he looks. He's actually kind of cute. Think about it.”

Chase Alexander? Cute? It wasn't something Erica wanted to think about, but she kept that observation to herself.

“Sounds like you're seeing him through the eyes of love.”

Angelique didn't deny it. Instead, she considered for a long moment before stating simply, “Maybe. It's only been a week.” Then she added, after another pause, “But sometimes, you meet someone and you
just
know
there's something between you. You know there's something there. You understand what I'm saying.”

Erica nodded. “Unfinished business,” she said. “That's what Mark calls it.”

Angelique nodded, too. “And you? Now that…everything's over,” she continued diplomatically, “you still getting hitched?”

Erica's heart gave a painful squeeze, but she managed to fake a smile along with her shoulder shrug. “I doubt it.”

“You doubt it,” Angelique repeated. “Why?”

“It was a ruse, Angelique. Remember? Just to catch…to find out who was poisoning him,” she finished, not wanting to have to say Mary's name.

Angelique's expression made it clear she wasn't interested in discussing Mary right now, anyway. “I know you're not going to tell me you don't want to marry him. Because it's written all over your face that you do.”

“How can you want to marry someone you've only known a few days?” Erica shook her head. “You might be that crazy, but I'm not.”

“Well, can you at least admit that you're crazy in love with him?” Erica opened her mouth, but Angelique raised a finger in warning: “And remember who you're talking to and don't bother to lie to me, girl.”

Erica sighed. “Suppose…just suppose…” she said slowly, “suppose I was. So what? How is this ever going to work? I mean, look at the kind of trouble I caused in his world in a couple of weeks.”

“Hey, that poison stuff had nothing to do with you. That girl started that stuff long before she knew you existed,” Angelique pointed out. “In a way, your being in the picture might have saved his life!”

“Maybe. But what about the election? What about the fact that, technically, I'm rooting for the other guy? Well, not Malloy. He looks like an even bigger jerk than Mark. The Democrat. Nanke, or whatever his name is.”

“Honestly, Erica,” Angelique said. “Can't you lay aside the politics for once? I asked you a simple question: Do—you—love—him?” She repeated, saying each word loudly and slowly as if Erica were a member of the “slow” class back at Bramble Heights. “It's a one-word answer. Yes or no.”

“Oh fine,” Erica retorted. “Yes. So what? That doesn't change the fact that this whole thing will never work.”

Angelique's mouth opened for her next argument or objection, but Erica silenced her with an upturned palm. “I'm done, Angelique. I don't want to talk about him anymore. I just want to get through this debate and go home.”

“Home?” Angelique frowned. “But we weren't scheduled to leave until Wednesday.”

“My recent fame—or infamy—counts for something at the reservations desk, at least. They let me swap out my ticket. I'm leaving tonight.”

“But Erica—”

“Not a word,” Erica repeated, showing her the palm again. “Now.” She nodded toward her attire. “What do you think?”

Angelique sighed. She cast an appraising eye over the tailored folds of the black suit and frowned. “It fits fine, but it's a little plain. It needs something.”

“I know just the thing,” Erica said, disappearing into the closet and pulling out her suitcase. She rummaged around inside it, displacing underwear, skirts, jeans, until she found what she was looking for.

“Erica…you're not going to—”

“Oh, yes I am.”

Angelique's brown face crunched into genuine concern. “Erica, you already said you were leaving. I don't see why you have to—”

“That's the point, Angelique. I don't want to hurt him, but
this
is who I am.
This
is why it would never work between us. And I can't think of a better way to tell him that than
this
.”

 

“I'll tender my resignation tonight if you like.” Bitsi stood before him, reeking of smoke, her eyes redrimmed as though she'd been crying. “I wanted to make sure the debate went well”—her red lips quirked upward into the tiniest smile Mark had ever seen—“and it did. You were great. I'm not even worried about tomorrow anymore. Hell, I'm not worried about November. The people of this state are standing right with you, Mark.”

Mark rubbed his forehead. He was tired—exhausted, really. His chest hurt, his leg hurt, his throat hurt. It had taken everything he had to appear normal, to appear his usual self. Now, sitting on the old leather sofa in the den of his home, he should have felt better. Should have felt relief. Except there was still Bitsi Barr to deal with, and…

He craned his neck toward the window.

Where was she?

His handlers had strict instructions to bring her back here, to his home, after the debate. So where was she?

“I'd say your reelection is assured,” Bitsi was saying when he tuned back into her. “Except—”

Mark waited, but she pursed her lips.

“Except?” he prompted.

“Well, you've seen the numbers. Support for the war is definitely eroding across the nation. Here's no ex
ception. They're with you now, but…” She shrugged her shoulders. “Erica Johnson and her stupid T-shirts might just have a point.” She rolled her eyes. “I can't believe she actually pulled that crap again. Ripping off her jacket when you introduced her. Once is fine, twice means you don't have any better ideas.”

Mark might have laughed two days ago…but today it wasn't funny. Not considering the things Bitsi had done. He let her ramble on for a few more minutes about Erica and her T-shirts and her war sentiments before he manhandled her back to the subject of her own transgression.

“I just want to know one thing.” He lifted his leg up onto a nearby hassock, whipped off his tie and tossed it toward the desk, watching it land and drape over the lamp shade. “Why? Why did you do it, Bits?”

She inhaled, long and hard and deep and her fingers twitched in a way that he knew meant she needed a cigarette. “You
will
be president one day, Mark,” she said at last in a low voice. “You will be the leader of the free world.”

He opened his mouth to object to so dramatic a characterization of his possible future, but she shook her head and held up her hand.

“Let me finish before you say anything, Mark. Otherwise, I might not get it all out.” She hesitated for a moment then barreled on. “You know how I feel about you.”

“C'mon, Bitsi,” he began, but she ignored him.

“I love you. I've always loved you. But you were married to Katharine and I loved her, too. When Katharine died…” Her eyes found his. “I'll admit it. I hoped. But you've always seen me as a buddy—a sister, I guess. And I got over it. Especially since there wasn't anyone else in your life. Sure there were the staff members and the interns and the female mem
bers of the Senate and their staff members and interns.” She shook her blonde hair until it bounced. “But they weren't any competition. For all the attention they paid you, you never looked at a single one of them, until Erica Johnson walked into that hearing room, with her hippy-dippy ideas, her outlandish slogans, that wild hair, and suddenly you were grinning like a schoolboy and rearranging schedules and running after her like—”

“I know how I feel about Erica,” Mark snapped. “What I don't know is how you could stoop so low as to have some—some—CIA mole following me around taking pictures! I don't see what made you frighten and embarrass her—and me—like that,” he growled. “Did you know I almost punched Malloy's lights out over those pictures? Did you know that?”

“No,” Bitsi said calmly. “But I had to do it, Mark. And I'd do it again. Even if you're mad at me for it.”

“You'd better believe I'm mad.”

“Even if you fire me—”

“That could happen, too.”