Butterfly (63 page)

She wanted this to be real. And it was going to have to be up to her to make the first

move. It frightened her a little, to think of standing up to John, to imagine the battle that

might lie ahead, to think of what she might lose. But it was a risk she was willing to take.

39

From an altitude of thirty thousand feet Beverly Highland thought the Pacific Ocean

looked like a pale blue counterpane spread across a tired world. She was gazing out the

window of her private jet and watching the coastline of California appear now and then

through the clouds below. She loved to fly; it made her feel as if her soul had wings.

Maggie, deeply immersed in a book, disagreed. She hated flying. Even in Beverly’s

comfortably appointed Learjet. She kept her wineglass filled and refused to look out the

window.

The rest of Beverly’s entourage—press secretary, hairdresser, chef, chauffeur, a personal

maid, and bodyguards—were scattered throughout the cabin quietly reading and playing

cards. They were getting in their relaxation now because once this jet put down at San

Francisco International Airport their work would begin. And there would be no rest for

any of them until the plane took off again tomorrow.

Maggie looked up from her book and studied her friend. Beverly looked terribly pale.

“Are you all right?” she said quietly.

Beverly looked at her and smiled. “I’m okay,” she murmured.

“You haven’t been sleeping.”

“Don’t worry, Maggie,” she said softly. “I’m all right, really.”

But Maggie was worried. Tonight in San Francisco, for the first time in thirty-five

years, Beverly was going to meet Danny Mackay face-to-face.

Power,
Danny thought as he adjusted his white Stetson and grinned at himself in the

mirror.
I have it at last. After all these years of working for it, studying for it, eating and breath-

ing for it, it’s mine.
He felt good tonight. Damned good. He felt as if he stood on top of the

world, instead of at the top of San Francisco’s tallest hotel. Those night-school dreams of

years ago when he had opened Machiavelli for the first time and read words that were

speaking directly to him—
A prince need not have virtues, but only seem to have them—
those

endless nights sitting in classrooms and the long hours poring over textbooks, the fight to

polish himself, to get the hayseed out of the way he spoke, to dress himself in class and turn

himself into someone whom people respected and listened to, all that long struggle had

been worth it. Soon, he would hold unimaginable power in his hands, the presidency, and

once he had that, there would be nothing Danny could not do.

He thought of last night’s press conference and exchanged a secretive, knowing smile

with his reflection. When questioned by a reporter about his stand on the issue of enter-

ing into a nuclear arms reduction agreement with the Russians, Danny had thought,
We

have to strike the bastards first before they strike us.
But to the press he had said, “Peace

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275

between the United States and the people of the Soviet Union is one of my most fervent

prayers.”

He and Bonner Purvis were alone in the hotel room. Danny had asked his ever-pres-

ent entourage to let them be by themselves for these last few minutes before going down

to the ballroom. On the other side of the closed door, which was flanked by two body-

guards, a crowd was gathering in the living room of Danny Mackay’s penthouse suite.

Their boy would not be going down in the elevator alone but would be accompanied by

three private secretaries, a speech writer, publicist, political advisers, and various impor-

tant party members. Tonight was going to be a big night in Danny Mackay’s campaign:

he was going to meet one of his most important backers for the first time.

Beverly Highland.

Danny looked at himself in the mirror and winked. This ol’ San Antonio boy had

come a long way since 1955, and he looked mighty good on this foggy April evening. He

wore an expensive tailored Western suit, high-heeled cowboy boots and a Stetson that

would have done J. R. Ewing proud. And the body beneath was expensively maintained,

too. No red neck paunch for Danny Mackay. A private gym in his Houston mansion

ensured that, at age fifty-six, Danny could still hold his own with men twenty years his

junior.

Danny still cut a striking figure and he knew it. He also knew that his sexy smile and

sly, lazy eyes were getting him the votes. He hypnotized people; he had a special magic

that few could resist, and he was going to turn it on full blast tonight, in honor of Miss

Highland. She would melt, he knew, and be one more of his pawns before the night was

over.

“Hey, Danny,” Bonner said suddenly. “Remember the road gang?”

Bonner was leaning in the doorway buffing his manicured fingernails. He still had the

strange pale blond hair and cherubic looks that had gotten him into so many beds in their

days of traveling around with Billy Bob Magdalene. He still got into a lot of beds, but dis-

creetly now, because of his employer.

“Yeah, boy,” Bonner said, grinning. “That road gang…”

That particular shared episode in their lives had occurred long ago—back in the days

when they had provided whores for Hazel’s house. For stealing a church’s poor box they

were given a year at hard labor on a morals charge, while the police chief ’s kid, who was

an accomplice, got off scot-free. After serving only two months of their time, the two had

laid down their shovels and, when the fat guard wasn’t looking, strolled off the job.

They’d laughed about that one for a long time. They’d lain low for a while, hiding out

with a friend of Hazel’s, and a year later, when they knew the statute of limitations was

up, they’d had a big celebration with a few of Hazel’s girls.

But Danny hadn’t forgotten that the son of the police chief had beaten the rap while

he and Bonner had gone to jail. That boy, Jimmy Briggs, had been put on Danny’s secret

list, along with Dr. Simon Waddell and others, and one day he found himself being

driven out to a lonely, desolate field wishing he’d never met up with Danny and Bonner.

Danny now gave Bonner a long, thoughtful look. They had been together a long

time, longer than Danny had been with anyone. Bonner was a bit of a dullard, not well

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Kathryn Harvey

educated, and he lacked imagination. But he was doglike loyal to Danny, and a man in a

high position needed at least one person he could rely on and trust.
The man who

becomes a prince through the support of the people will stand alone and no one will disobey

him.
Danny liked standing alone, and he liked being obeyed, but there were times when

it suited his purpose to have Bonner around. Bonner had served his master faithfully for

years, and continued to do so. But, like an old dog, when his usefulness came to an end,

so would Bonner.

Danny walked to the window and looked out. The Golden Gate Bridge was strung

across the fog-shrouded neck of the Bay like a gaudy necklace. That road gang had hap-

pened to someone else in another age. It had nothing to do with Danny Mackay, who was

one step away from the White House.

He’d reached it at last, the final jumping-off place he had worked so long to arrive at.

Once the money and influence had been secured, he had then made his moves into the

political arena.

That was six years ago, at a time when his name was near the top of the popularity

polls. Danny Mackay had ranked fourth on the Most Favorite American list, and sixth on

Most Favorite Person in the World. He’d been approached then by the chairmen of the

central organizing committees for both parties and he’d gotten down to the serious busi-

ness of placing himself in the political limelight. But his real opportunity had occurred

only last year, and everyone had declared what a stroke of luck it had been for him. It had

to do with a man named Fred Banks.

“Hey, Bon,” Danny had asked his friend last year, on the occasion of that luck, “have

you ever heard of a man named Carl Jung?”

“No.”

“He had a theory called synchronicity. It means things happening at the same time,

things that appear to occur co-incidentally. Like, for example, two totally unrelated phe-

nomena taking place at the same moment resulting in something fantastic. Most people

call it luck or coincidence. Do you know what ‘serendipity’ means?”

Bonner didn’t know.

“It means desirable things happening by accident. And this,” Danny had said, holding

up a newspaper so that Bonner could see the headline, “is what I call a perfect example of

serendipitous synchronicity.”

The front page was carrying the story of a man named Fred Banks who had gone to

the Middle East to spread the Word of God to the heathen Muslims and had gotten a lit-

tle too enthusiastic one Friday preaching outside a mosque. He was arrested and thrown

in jail on a spying charge, and all of a sudden the State Department was involved.

Well, Fred had denied that he was an agent for the CIA, declaring that he was in the

Middle East because of Danny Mackay. According to the newspapers, Fred had gotten all

worked up while watching the
Good News Hour
one day, had bought himself a Bible and

a one-way ticket to a “godless corner of the world.” Now he was being persecuted for the

Lord’s sake, he had claimed. He was a martyr for Jesus and Danny.

It had been an awkward situation for the American consul, who was working hard try-

ing to keep Fred Banks from being imprisoned for life or executed. And so when Fred

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appealed directly to the Reverend Danny Mackay, a more private appeal was made to

Danny as well. The men in the dark blue suits and unmarked car who came to visit him

at his Houston headquarters one day assured Danny of absolute safety and immunity if

he would please fly over there and negotiate the release of the embarrassing Fred.

Danny told his private staff that it was serendipitous synchronicity—Fred needing to

be rescued by Danny at a time when Danny was trying to push his name higher in the

polls. And so amid a flurry of publicity and excited media attention, he had flown to the

small Middle Eastern country, where he had met with the king’s ministers and, through

charisma and showmanship, had been able to convince them that Fred was not a spy at all

but simply a misguided Christian zealot. Danny publicly apologized for Fred’s actions

and showed his good faith by presenting the king with a white stretch limo with Texas

steer horns on the hood.

His return to the United States with the bedraggled, bearded, grateful missionary had

been met by dizzying media attention. Along with the widely published photo of him

shaking hands with the king—the captions read, “The cow boy and the sheik”—Danny

suddenly found himself in the uppermost echelons of fame. Talk-show hosts clamored to

have him on their programs; four major publishers approached him to write a book; he

received awards and commendations from organizations all over the country; he had din-

ner at the White House.

Just as he had predicted, Danny Mackay became a hero overnight.

Except that it hadn’t been luck at all, or serendipitous synchronicity. Danny had sent

Fred Banks to the Middle East, and together they had played out a scene.

Danny marveled at how easy it had been. So simple to plan and execute. Danny had

advertised for the services of a mercenary in
Soldier of Fortune
magazine, and it was agreed

that Fred Banks would receive a large sum of money plus a ranch in Mexico in return for

playing a role. Dazzled by the payment that was being offered him, and by the celebrity who

was hiring him, Fred had been willing and cooperative from the start. His value was famil-

iarity with the Middle East, a smattering of Bible education, and a great deal of knowledge

about desert survival, should it come to that. He had assumed his role at once, clearly enjoy-

ing the secrecy, the one-man-mission aspect of it, and the promise of media attention after-

ward. Danny had already paved the way, through various diplomatic contacts and other