Amanda's Eyes (18 page)

Shuki’s disembodied voice:  “Okay,
bring up the lights.”

An overhead spot popped on,
illuminating me but leaving my surroundings shrouded in darkness.  Hank was in
the control room.  Nobody else was around, because the
Herald’s
lifestyle
crew called it a day at five.

If Ellison was any kind of reporter
at all, curiosity had to be eating him alive by now.  First I borrow his set,
then I draft him into service, all without giving him any specifics.  Two
mysterious, encrypted texts later, parties unknown remote-commandeer his
system, and a sultry female voice invades his soundstage.  And those were only
the preliminaries.  Hank didn’t know it yet, but he had a box seat for the biggest
broadcast of  my life.

I only hope it won’t be the
last
broadcast of my life
, I
thought, with a glance at the clock.  Eight-thirty.  Showtime.

Shuki said, “You’re live in three,
two, one—”

With a surreptitious breath to steady
my nerves, I looked into the camera.  And smiled.  “You call yourselves the Ferrymen. 
I have a message for you.

“You haven’t scared me off.  I’m
still on your case, and I’m going to stay there, now more than ever.  You’ll be
sorry you missed your shot at me, because if you thought I was a can of worms
before, that’s nothing compared to what I’m about to become.

“I’m the one who got away.  The one
who’s going to bring you down.  I would move heaven and hell to do it, but to
tell you the truth, I’m beginning to think orchestrating your downfall won’t be
the challenge I expected it to be.  I mean, you botched your chance to take me
out of the picture, right?  Maybe  you got careless because you’ve started to
believe your own press, or maybe you’re losing your edge.  Bottom line, you’re evidently
not the big, bad, invincible wolves we all thought you were.

“I wonder if prospective clients are
thinking twice about contracting with you.  Now that they know you couldn’t hit
one unarmed reporter.  I’ll bet they are.  If not, they will be.  As soon as they
hear what comes next.

“Our mutual friend?  The one in the
photo you sent?  You figured him for some harmless schlemiel who didn’t have
the brains to tie his own shoes.  Maybe you should have been more careful
around him.  It’s always the small stuff that trips you up, right?  The slip of
the tongue, the minor lapse, that gives the game away?  Our friend was more
observant than you gave him credit for.  We had an extremely informative chat
before you booked that last photo shoot.  I can get to you with what he told
me.  Might even share the scoop with my new pals in CIIS.

“Long story short, you blew it, big
time, and your days are numbered.  Trust me on that.

Meanwhile, I want you to remember
three names.  You might want to write them down.  Not that all the other
murders you’ve committed don’t matter, but these made it personal for me.  Special
Agent Evander Cuey.  Special Agent Sammy Michaels.  Senator Agnes Oppenheimer. 
When you’re on the run and looking over your shoulders, I want you to know why.”

Then I drew a finger across my
throat, signaling Shuki to end the transmission.

“
Oooh
,” she crooned when the
lights came up, “that had to hurt!  And they say
I
like to live
dangerously!  Nice job, Goody Two-Shoes, but I am
way
out of here.”

“Take care, Shuki-O.”  I didn’t
expect or get an answer; I had a feeling she was already gone.

“Holy crap!”

The quiet, almost reverent, exclamation
drew my attention up the curved stairway to the right of the tiered audience seating. 
Hank stood outside the door to the control room, eyes wide, arms hanging
loosely at his sides.  His face was so white, both his freckles and his bushy
red eyebrows looked like they had been glued on.

He shook his head and said it again,
with feeling.  “
Holy crap!
”

“Hank—”

The sound of his name seemed to snap
him out of his daze.  He sprang into action, loping down the aisle, two stairs at
a time.  “Are you out of your freakin’ mind?  I don’t freakin’
believe
this!”

“Calm down, I—”

“
Calm down?
”  He landed in
front of me, slightly out of breath, cummerbund askew.  “
Calm down?
” 
His index finger stabbed the air in front of me.  “You call out the world’s
most efficient killing machine,
from my studio
, and you want me to
calm
down
?  I’m a dead man,” he groaned, closing his eyes.  “My life is over,
and I never even had a chance to get married and father an heir to follow in
the old man’s footsteps.”  He opened his eyes to glare at me reproachfully. 
“You could have at least warned me before you set me up for a blind date with death.”

I couldn’t help myself.  “
Blind
date with death?
”  The glare intensified.  “Okay, forget I said that.  But
would you have helped me, if I had told you what I was going to do?”

The blood rushed back into his face
with a vengeance.  “I don’t know, but it would have been nice to have a
choice!”

Time to settle him down before the increased
blood flow blew an aneurysm in that overheated brain.  “Relax, Hank.  There’s
no way anyone can connect what happened here to either you or the
Herald.
 
My technical expert is the best in the world, and she assures me this broadcast
will be virtually untraceable.”

“
Virtually
untraceable?  Now
why don’t I find that reassuring?”

“Will you calm down?  Even if the Ferrymen
eventually trace it back to me,
you’re
in the clear, and I’ll be leaving
town, probably later tonight.  We planned this down to the last detail, covered
all possible contingencies.  Trust me, I would never put someone else’s life at
risk.”

I paused, wondering if that was
strictly true, given what had happened to Cuey and Michaels.  I still wasn’t
one hundred percent convinced their deaths weren’t my fault.  Of course, this wasn’t
the time to wrestle my conscience.  Instead, I told Hank, “You’re safe.”

He eyed me suspiciously for a long minute. 
“You’re sure.”

“Absolutely.”

He stared at me some more, then
heaved a sigh.  Straightening his cummerbund and checking his tie, he muttered,
“I hope you’re right, but I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”  He ran an
unsteady hand over his hair.  “Look, I don’t know about you, but I could use a
drink.  You still up for the gala?”

“Sure.”

Adrenaline was still pouring through
my veins as we left the studio, each wrapped in our own thoughts.

Despite the way his eyes had lit up
when he first saw me in my long-sleeved, floor-length gown—a black, beaded
number that rose high in front and plunged almost to my waist in back—Hank was
probably wishing he had never laid eyes on me.

As for me?  I felt like an actor in
some post-modern adaptation of the Cinderella story.  My low-heeled, size-ten
black pumps were hardly dainty glass slippers, but I
was
dressed up and
on my way to the ball.  I knew the clock was ticking, and midnight would come
all too soon.  But where Cindy married the prince, my storybook ending was
still up in the air.

And living happily ever after was
drawing long odds.

The private drive leading to Treemont
Country Club broke out of the surrounding woods to cut a sweeping curve through
three acres of manicured lawn.  Twin borders of luminaries flickered softly under
a blanket of stars as a steady stream of luxury sedans and limos cruised between
them, skirting a kidney-shaped pond directly across from the clubhouse where banks
of windows two stories high blazed with light.  The yellow-gold glow spilled
across the driveway to dance on wind-ripples wrinkling the water’s mirrored
surface.

One by one, the vehicles ahead of us
drew up to the curved portico to disgorge Hobson’s Hope glitterati.  Then it
was our turn.  We pulled up in front of the twin pillars supporting the canopy. 
One black-clad valet swept open my door and handed me out onto the red carpet,
while a second slid behind the steering console.  As Ellison’s forest-green
coupe pulled away, he took my elbow to guide me toward a pair of massive oak
doors.

A trim man in a tux greeted us, his
lips curved in welcome under a pencil-thin black mustache.  “Ms. Gregson, what
a delightful surprise!  It’s not every day I get to greet a famous correspondent. 
Henri Marceau, General Manager, at your service.  Welcome to Treemont.”  He
turned to Hank.  “And speaking of celebrities, here’s one of our own.  It’s
been a while, Mr. Ellison.”

“Didn’t have time for golf this fall,
Henri.”  The two men shook hands.  “And it’s too cold to play now.  I’m
strictly a fair-weather duffer.”

“Well, at least join us for dinner
now and then.  Otherwise, Morgan will think you no longer appreciate her.  You
know how sensitive artists can be.”

“I’ll stop in soon.  Morgan Garamond
is the chef,” Hank explained for my benefit, as Marceau turned to greet the next
group of arrivals.

We stepped into a grand entrance
hall and went with the flow, passing under a massive crystal chandelier before
we hung a left.  The ballroom was a soaring space clasped between the arms of two
curved stairways and crowned by a high balcony.  Thick logs burned majestically
in the big black-veined marble fireplace across the room.  French doors to our
right opened onto a flagstone patio bordered by a low wall.  A string quartet
tucked in the far corner was doing right by Mozart as guests chatted at the wet
bar and eddied around the buffet tables, each of which sprouted a stunning,
oversized floral arrangement.

We hadn’t gone three feet before my
stomach sat up and took notice of the enticing aromas wafting from those tables,
gurgling a reminder that I hadn’t fed it since noon.  I was about to steer Hank
toward sustenance, when I noticed the approach of a statuesque woman in a ruby
silk gown.  Silver curls trailed out from under the turban that matched her
dress, flirted with the diamonds dripping daintily from her earlobes, and feathered
down the graceful curve of her neck.  She didn’t so much walk across the room
as sail, serene as an ocean liner on a calm sea.

She coasted to a stop directly in
front of us and skewered Hank with a look.  “It’s nine.  You’re late.”

He smiled, obviously unfazed.  “Sorry,
Lavonia.  Something came up.”

“My fault,” I said.

She treated me to a queenly stare
and haughty brow lift, that had me clamping my lips against a grin.

Hank hurried to make the
introductions.  “Lavonia Hammersmith, this is—”

“A.J. Gregson.  I know.  I’ve seen
some of your work.”

The
and didn’t think much of it
was implied.  She waited, possibly expecting me to squirm under her
disapproving pewter gaze.  I almost hated to disappoint her, but between being
a reporter, working for Tug Maxwell, and having three brothers, I have a hide
like a rhinoceros.

“Nice to meet you,” I said with a
smile, and glanced around.  “Hank wasn’t exaggerating when he said this would
be an elegant affair.  Reminds me of some state dinners I’ve attended.”  Only
under extreme duress, but why clutter up the conversation with details guaranteed
to cement her bad opinion of me?  I gestured toward the closest table.  “Did
your club do the flower arrangements?  They’re incredible.”

Her eyes widened slightly, a discrete
but welcome signal I had caught her by surprise.  “Yes, we did design the
centerpieces.”  Her expression defrosted infinitesimally.  “I’m pleased you
noticed them.”

“They’re even better than last
year’s,” Hank assured her.  “Remind me to get some photos for the Sunday
feature.”  Rubbing his hands together, he scanned the crowd.  “Now, where’s the
guest of honor?”

“Malcolm just called.  I’m afraid
there’s been a last-minute delay.  Normally, he’s quite punctual, but I gather
an unexpected situation arose—an issue involving a business venture.  One of
his many
worthy
causes, no doubt.”

“No doubt,” I murmured.

“I expect him within the hour.  In
the meantime,” she continued, with a regal sweep of her hand, “please avail
yourselves of the buffet—it’s
très magnifique
.  Chef Garamond has
outdone herself.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, I see Mayor Makomba has arrived. 
Since he’s charged with introducing Malcolm, I’ll need to update him on the schedule
change.”  And off she sailed.

“Let’s get that drink,” Hank
suggested.  My stomach burbled a protest loud enough to be heard over the first
dainty notes of the quartet’s next selection, a Haydn piece in D minor.  “Okay,”
he said without missing a beat, “
I’ll
get the drinks,
you
hit the
buffet tables.  Name your poison.”

“I’ll stick with water, thanks.  I
need to keep a clear head for later.”

“Yeah, I see what you mean.”  He
hesitated.  “But you’re sure
I’m
okay, right?  Not that I want to sound
selfish or come off as chicken, it’s just—”

“You’ll be fine, Hank.”

“All right, if you say so.  Go ahead
and fill up a plate; I’ll find you.”

He was back before I knew it,
handing me a crystal flute of spring water.  We spent the next forty-five
minutes grazing on crab-cheddar polenta spoons, bacon-wrapped shrimp, pork
tenderloin, grilled vegetables, quail, and raspberry cobbler with white
chocolate sauce.  With our plates in one hand and drinks in the other, we
wandered from one lively horticultural debate to the next:  hybrids versus open
pollination, hot or cold composting, native versus imported.

Hank was in his element, dropping
two cents and the odd question into each conversation, but the minute a full-figured
type sporting cream satin and an impossibly black beehive mentioned hydrangeas,
he latched onto my arm and hauled me toward the French doors, muttering words
that sounded like, “get some air.”  We were half-way to the patio when a buzz
of excitement rippled across the ballroom, drawing our attention to the man
framed in the entrance.

If Santa ever decides to drop a
hundred-fifty pounds and trade his fuzzy red suit for beige Italian silk, he
and Malcolm Conover can pass for twins.  Same grandfatherly twinkle in the
bright blue eyes.  Same rosy cheeked smile.  Same snowy hair and beard,
although Conover wore his whiskers trimmed and his hair in a neat queue.

The resemblance didn’t stop with
appearances.  Like Saint Nick, the philanthropist delivered goodies on a global
scale, by air.  The big difference was Conover’s gift list, which had nothing
to do with naughty or nice, but was strictly needs-based.  In a world where
people had trouble agreeing on the weather, Malcolm Conover was unanimously
regarded as a genuine prince among men, a reputation he earned after a
less-than-stellar adolescence, according to his surprisingly candid official
bio.

A privileged son of privileged
parents, he had grown up spoiled, even by the standards of the silver-spoon
crowd.  Hard to imagine a wild, willful hellion with a name like Malcolm, but
hellion he had been.  He eventually got into a few scrapes with the law, one serious
enough to earn him a couple hundred hours’ community service in an
under-developed village in Mexico.

Surprisingly enough, running
headlong into real poverty and need turned out to be the perfect wrench for a
serious attitude adjustment.  Young Malcolm saw the light.  By the time he
finished his service and headed home to Toronto, he was determined to
“alleviate human suffering when- and wherever possible.”  He was eighteen years
old when he set up the Change a Life Foundation, a complex network of
wide-ranging charities that currently drew tens of billions in donations
annually and had a reputation for getting tough jobs done all over the globe.

I had never met Conover in person,
but it seemed I was about to get my chance.  Arm linked through his, Lavonia
Hammersmith was homing in on Hank and me for the second time that evening.  Then,
they were standing in front of us.

“Ms. Gregson,” began Lavonia,
“Malcolm—that is, Mr. Conover—would like to make your acquaintance.  As a
matter of fact, he expressly requested an introduction the moment he found out
you were here.”  Both her expression and tone bordered on mystified.

The famous philanthropist sent her a
sheepish look.  “Pardon me for acting like a star-struck schoolboy, cousin, but
I’m one of Ms. Gregson’s most loyal admirers.”

“Please, call me A.J.,” I said,
handing Hank my glass so I could offer my hand.

Conover’s attention shifted from
Lavonia to me.  The hand that gripped mine was unexpectedly strong and calloused,
but that didn’t surprise me nearly as much as what happened when our eyes met. 
I felt my surroundings tilt as I slid into that other dimension.  Assaulted by
the now-familiar vertigo, I dropped Conover’s hand and took an instinctive step
back, trying not to stammer when I told him it was always nice to meet a fan.

“Oh, I seldom miss your broadcasts,”
he said with a Kris Kringle-y smile, as lines blurred and colors ran.  His gentle
voice seemed to come through a long, dark tunnel as he added, “I was concerned
when you disappeared from the airwaves a few weeks back.  Yours is a dangerous
line of work, after all.  Then I saw this evening’s editorial and realized you
were in your usual fine fettle.”

“Caught that one, did you?” murmured
Hank.

My heart bucked violently when
Conover jumped back into ultra-sharp focus.  I could see every pore, each
individual eyelash, each putrefying sore that erupted on his forehead, cheeks,
and chin.  His flesh grew rancid, then dry as parchment, pulling his lips into
a grisly grimace as his face rotted right before my eyes.  Watching the skin flake
off his bones was like watching a corpse decompose in time-lapse.  Conover was
still smiling, but his pearly whites were pointed like fangs and caked with gore,
and his gaze glowed like the coals of Hell.  Then the last layer of skin
vanished, and I almost fainted for the first time in my life.

Atop those narrow silk-clad
shoulders sat the Death’s Head, the visage of Charon himself.  As I watched,
spellbound, those soulless eyes locked on me.  Instead of pupils, the irises
were holed by the irregular Greek coins known as oboli.  Charon’s fare.  And
they were engraved with my name.