Gospel (23 page)

‘All right,' said Croft, now salivating at the mention of Cavanaugh's name. ‘But Dr Montgomery, you said “up until now” your ex-husband was
not
involved. Does that mean Mr Cavanaugh is . . . ?'

‘Not now, Thursday, late, after most of the press out front have given up for the day.'

‘But I am afraid that's impossible. There will be no time for pre-promotion and we will have to turn the story around within twenty-four hours. We normally operate on a minimum of a three to four day lead and . . .'

‘Do we have a deal, Ms Croft?'

Caroline paused. Karin Montgomery was a pushy bitch and Croft was
certainly not one to humour such demands under normal circumstances. But these circumstances were far from ‘normal' and in the end she knew her exclusive interview would be ratings gold – pre-promotion or not. And so she would agree to her stringent terms, but not before she had some ‘insurance', some indication of the ‘prize at the end of the fight'.

‘All right, Doctor,' said Croft finally. ‘You have a deal but . . .'

‘But what, Ms Croft?' and Croft sensed that all of these questions were starting to make Karin Montgomery nervous.
I have to lock this in quickly
, she thought,
before the woman has a chance to change her mind
.

‘But in order for me to agree to all these special conditions, I need a bite, Doctor. I need to know that what you have is something quite remarkable. I cannot . . .'

‘My husband did not kill Tom Bradshaw.'

‘Well, I realise, that as the Professor's wife, you obviously . . .'

‘But I know who did.'

‘
What?
' Caroline could not believe what she was hearing. This was amazing, mind-blowing, astronomical, the scoop of the century. ‘Who? How do you . . . ?'

‘How I came across this information is irrelevant, the fact that I have it is the issue. As you can appreciate my priority, even above and beyond proving my husband's innocence, is assuring he is protected from the consequences of baring such knowledge.'

‘My God,' said Caroline, unable to stop herself. ‘You haven't been to the authorities with this?'

‘No. They are part of the problem.'

Croft's mind was ticking over, relishing the thought that if Karin Montgomery was right, she may be the first person to reveal the identity of the ‘assassin' of the decade. Hell, she could trump the God-damned FBI.

‘Doctor, is there anyone else who has this information – think hard now, anyone who might know what you know and tell their story prior to Friday. We have to make sure this information is secure, I mean, for your benefit and for that of your husband.'

And mine, thought Caroline. The last thing she needed was someone else breaking
her
exclusive before she had time to get it to air.

‘Yes and no. I have told one other person, but I trust that person implicitly.'

‘Who might that be, Doctor?' asked Caroline, cutting to the chase.

‘My lawyer, Ms Croft, I told my lawyer, and he cannot reveal said information under attorney client privilege.'

‘And your lawyer is . . . ?
Good Lord!
' Caroline got it in one.

‘That's right, Ms Croft. David Cavanaugh is my attorney and as soon as an agreement is finalised, he will also be representing my husband. My first husband is about to save my current husband's life, Ms Croft, is that a bite big enough for you to digest?'

‘I . . . Yes. Yes it is.'

‘I'll see you on Thursday, Ms Croft, and don't worry about hair and makeup. I like to do my own.'

‘I would never have expected otherwise,' said Caroline, the magnitude of what she had just heard finally settling in her stomach.

B
illing's Field was a large open space on the corner of Lagrange and Bellevue in the leafy Boston suburb of West Roxbury. It was one of those all-American places that operated on the premise that kids live in a democracy too – baseball, softball, football, lacrosse, little league, basketball, tennis, you name it, you could play it at Billing's, which by the looks of things on this warm summer evening, every energetic kid and their equally as dedicated parents were happy to do.

Nora had spoken to Joe who told her he would be at ball practice at Billing's Field with his eldest son Joe Junior until 7pm, and David was more than welcome to meet them there. And so just after six, having explained to Sara he was meeting Joe for a catch up, David dragged his gym gear out of his office cupboard and ran across town to West Roxbury. His brain was numb, his body loaded with nervous energy and he knew the run would clear his head.

By the time he rounded Bellevue, with Billing's in his sights, the drudgery of a long day seemed to have lifted from his shoulders. He had decided he was over-reacting and this did not have to be such a big deal after all. He would tell Joe about Karin, about her request and belief in her husband's innocence, and then his slate would be clean. What Joe did with the information after that, would be totally up to him.

He was late, and for a moment he was worried he'd missed Joe altogether. But then he saw him walking Joe Junior to the car and ran across the ball park trying to catch them before they headed the two blocks south to their large and comfortable West Roxbury home.

‘Hey,' he called, catching them up.

‘Hey, Mr Cavanaugh,' said Joe Junior.

‘It's David, remember.'

‘Sure.'

‘So how was practice?' asked David.

‘Great, we played against our older division and won by three runs,' said Joe Junior, tossing his ball into the air.

‘All right,' said David, snatching the ball from above the twelve-year-old's head, before tossing it back to him. David then gave Joe Junior a high five and looked up at his dad. ‘Sorry I'm late.'

‘You look like shit.'

‘Dad, you said “
shit
”,' said Joe Junior.

‘Yeah,
Dad
,' said David, ruffling the younger Mannix's head of thick dark brown hair. ‘And it's good to see you too.'

‘I'm about to drop Joe at a friend's place – and Marie has taken the other three boys to her sister's for dinner. If you're up for it, I'll cook us some meat on the backyard barbecue. Nothing fancy of course, just steaks, salad, bread, beer.'

‘Sounds good.'

‘Okay, hop in. And don't squash the volcano.'

‘Volcano?'

‘Gabriel's science project.'

‘Right. Is it full of hot air like his dad?' David smiled at Joe Junior, who obviously thought this was very funny.

‘Hey,' said Mannix. ‘You two wanna get to dinner in one piece I suggest you give it a rest.'

‘No problem, gas man,' said Joe Junior, launching into another round of giggles.

‘Just no unnecessary eruptions on the way home,' said David, looking back at his young co-conspirator.

The Mannix house was a four-bedroom Colonial in a leafy part of West Roxbury known as Bellevue Hill. It had all the charm of a period home – the original whitewashed wood shingles, sea blue painted shutters, gumwood floors, crown mouldings and wood beam ceilings, with all the comforts of a place packed with kids and loaded with activity. The house smelled of a mixture of freshly cooked bread, recently used cleaning fluid and late blooming jacaranda which grew in copious amounts beyond the back porch. It was full but uncluttered, neat but comfortable, and blessed with a sense of calmness despite the constant bustle which took place within its four walls almost twenty-four hours a day.

‘Beer?' asked Mannix.

‘Thanks,' said David, letting out a sigh and downing the cold bottle of Bud without even taking a breath.

‘Bad day?'

‘You could say that.'

‘The Bridge Club guy?'

‘The Bridge Club guy.'

‘Wanna talk about it?'

‘Not really.'

‘Okay.'

David grabbed two more beers and they moved out to the large backyard, Joe picking up two bikes and one football on his way to the home-made barbecue which sat perched in the far left hand corner under a low-hanging jacaranda branch. David took a seat on one of the weathered wooden chairs which surrounded a similarly weathered wooden table and watched Mannix as he fired up the barbecue.

They sat for a while, talking about nothing in particular, listening to the rhythm of the twilight crickets, drinking their beers and enjoying the cool evening breeze. Joe cooked some sausages and lean beef steaks, served up a green salad with Spanish onion and tomato and they washed it all down with more cold beers.

‘So what's up?' said Mannix at last. ‘When Nora called I got the feeling it was urgent. Now I know I'm a personable guy but . . .'

David knew it was now or never. And he also knew there was no point in beating around the bush. And so he told him, straight up.

‘She asked me to represent him.'

‘What?'

‘Karin. She asked me to represent her husband. I saw her – on Saturday. She turned up at the rugby. She has sacked the first guy, the one who screwed up the arraignment, and now she wants me to be his new attorney. Says I am the only man who can save him. Says he is innocent. Says he is being framed.'

‘Jesus,' said Mannix, not believing what he was hearing. ‘So what did you say?'

‘Nothing. I didn't say anything. I just got up and left. I mean, I haven't spoken to Karin in over ten years, not since she . . .' David paused, taking a long pull on his beer before signalling Joe for another.

‘When she left me, all those years ago, it took me a long time to see things straight again. And now I have Sara and she is, well, you
know
how she is. We're moving in together. Did I tell you that? Fourth of July weekend. We are packing her stuff and moving it in with mine and I can't, I
won't
jeopardise that for anything.

‘The only reason I am telling you this is because of what you said to me that day on the Harbour. You trusted me with your instincts and I couldn't live with myself if I didn't at least tell you what she said.' David downed half of his beer before going on. ‘And so now you know, and my conscience is clear and maybe, just maybe, we can all move on.'

Joe nodded, the crickets creaked on and the sun finally sank below the far western wall. They sat there for a long time, listening to the sounds of the neighbourhood: a mother down the block calling her kids in for the night, the dog next door howling at the moon, the faint sounds of traffic on Centre Street. Finally Mannix broke the silence.

‘David, I've got a story to tell you and I don't want you to interrupt until I'm done. Then I'm gonna tell you what I'm about to do. All I'm asking right now is that you listen – and then, well, the rest is up to you.'

And so Mannix began, telling him everything he had learned in LA – about Croker and Nancy and her murdered husband and son, about the Doyle family's witness protection status and Nancy's story of the mysterious Gospel Four. He told him about Robert Doyle's prediction of the Vice President's death, about Nancy's certainty that the FBI were involved, about McKay's theory on the thirty quarters, and their overall conclusion that Stuart Montgomery was being framed for a crime he did not commit.

And then he sat there in silence, swatting mosquitoes from his arms and watching his friend open another beer and finish it.

‘What do you want from me, Joe?' said David, already hating himself for asking the question.

‘I need a lawyer to delay Nancy Doyle's case.'

‘And . . .'

‘And . . .' Mannix swung his feet up over the bench so that he was now facing his friend, eye to eye. ‘The thing is, David, I don't know who I can trust. McKay and Leigh are decent cops but I'm worried that just by helping me with this, that I am jeopardising their careers. After all, we are just three Boston homicide locals with a theory that says some heavy duty Federal agents conspired to kill the Vice President. Call me naïve but my guess is that ain't gonna make us very popular.

‘I told you the other day that I need a witness – someone on the outside who can legitimise everything we find. But to be honest, that was a lie – or at least a gross understatement. The truth is I need someone stupid enough to put their career – maybe even their life – on the line for what we may be about to discover. I need someone who can help me work all this out, someone who knows how to tell the difference between the truth and a lie and the implications of both. I need someone who is willing to go the full mile without getting cold feet, without turning back, someone crazy enough to challenge some of the most powerful people in this country. But most of all I need a friend, to tell me when to stop if enough becomes enough, or more importantly to push on, when all else seems lost.'

Joe downed his Bud and opened another before going on.

‘Beyond that, I feel sick at the idea that I am sitting here, selfishly trying to drag you into all of this. And I will totally understand it if you tell me to go jump. What is it they say? “With friends like me you don't need enemies”, and the enemies I'm about to make are, well, let's just say there are no guarantees.'

David shook his head, knowing the sluggish feeling of this simple movement was due to the fast consumption of alcohol – and the weight of responsibility his friend had just proposed. He reached for another beer and opened it quickly, hoping the amber fluid would make him numb to what he had just heard – and oblivious to what he would have to decide.

‘So where would you start?' he said at last.

‘At the Fairmont,' said Mannix. ‘I want to go back to the beginning. Live and breathe the events of that night. Find out what was so important about that Bible and maybe in the process discover exactly how this whole thing went down.'

They drank some more before David got the courage to ask the most important question of all.