Mr. And Miss Anonymous (22 page)

“I know you want me to say
yes,
but I can’t. I just don’t know, son.”

Tessie Dancer eyed the storefront local office of Senator Hudson Preston. She’d heard someone say once, someone who didn’t want to be quoted, that politicians’ storefront offices were for the little people to come and plead their cases and to walk away with an autographed picture. She wondered if the senator would move this particular location to something a little bigger and grander once his hat was officially in the ring for a presidential run.

Hudson Preston, son of Douglas Preston, founder of Preston Pharmaceuticals, bigger than everyone except Merck and Pfizer. A multibillion-dollar industry. Billion with a
b
. Hudson Preston, with the trophy wife, the first wife languishing in Carmel-by-the-Sea with a dizzying payout to free him up for the trophy wife. There were grandchildren, too, brought out for photo ops from time to time.

Tessie wondered if it was worth going to Carmel to talk to the first wife and to look up the grown children. Maybe a conference call or a videotaped call. She recalled that the first Mrs. Preston did not like the limelight, ditto for the son and daughter, who had forcefully said they wanted nothing to do with politics. Or with the senator, though that part was mumbled under their breath, or so her colleague who had interviewed them told it. But they were perfectly content to take his money. In any event, it was something to think about.

Once she found a parking space, Tessie sauntered down the tree-shaded sidewalk and entered the building. Three nerdy-looking individuals looked up at the same time, curious expressions on their faces. Clearly there weren’t all that many visitors to the senator’s local office. It also looked like the small staff wasn’t expecting the senator. Did Little Slick get his information wrong? Did the senator go to his home first, maybe to freshen up? Well, she was here, so she might as well make the best of it. First, though, she had to call Pete Kelly to find out how the early-morning interview went. She held up her hand to indicate the three nerds should wait a moment while she made a phone call. Pete picked up on the first ring.

“How’d it go, Pete?”

Looking through the plate glass window, her eyes on the foot traffic as well as on the vehicular traffic, Tessie spoke quickly. “Give it to me word for word.” Pete did. “That’s good. Do you think the boy will call your headquarters?”

“I can only hope. I called the office, and everyone is on alert. There will be a rash of other calls, I can guarantee it, so they’ll have to sift through them. My people know what to do, so there’s no worry on that end. They’ll give him my and Lily’s cell phone numbers. By the way, I packaged up the boy’s suit and had one of the guards take it to the airport. That, too, is in good hands at the moment. We’ll know soon if his DNA is a match for mine.”

“Good going, Pete. I’ll get back to you,” Tessie said. Then she noticed a black Town Car about to pull to the curb in front of the storefront. She quickly snapped the phone shut and pocketed it as she turned around to face the three nerdy-looking staff members.

“Tess Dancer from the
Chronicle,
” Tessie said as she flipped open her wallet to show her press card. “I heard Senator Preston was in town. I thought I’d get an early start and see if he wants to do an interview. Well, will you look at that!” she said, pointing to the curb outside. “Talk about a reporter’s dumb luck.” Tessie stepped aside as the door opened, and a gaggle of men walked into the long, narrow room.

Preston’s megawatt smile lit up the room when he saw and recognized Tessie. “Can’t hide out from you guys nohow,” he said jokingly. “It boggles my mind that I didn’t know I was coming here until last night, yet here you are! What can I do for you, Miss Dancer?”

“How about a few words for your constituents? In private.”

“Anything for the press. I’ve always been cooperative, you know that.”

Tessie forced a smile as she followed the senator to the back of the room, where there was a table with four chairs. One of the aides hustled to get the senator a bottled water. “Can I get you anything, Miss Dancer?” the young woman asked politely.

“No thanks, I’m good.”

Tessie turned her attention to the senator. “So, you’re going to make a run for it.”

The senator turned coy. It was not a becoming expression. “If the people want me, what else can I do? I live to serve my government, you know that, Miss Dancer. It’s how I got to office. I’m on a pretty tight schedule today, so if there’s nothing else…”

“Well, actually, Senator, there is something else. My readers have written some very strong letters to us at the paper wanting to know why there was a lid put on the shooting at the California Academy of Higher Learning. They want to know why, as their elected official, you aren’t demanding answers. I find it rather odd myself, Senator, so if you’d care to comment, I’d appreciate it.”

Tessie wondered if it was her imagination or if the senator had stiffened slightly at her question. The man waved his arms expansively.

“Believe it or not, no one asked for my help, and when I did volunteer, I was told in no uncertain terms that my help wasn’t needed. I know when to retreat. The FBI is a very fine organization, and they know what they’re doing.”

“By chance, Senator Preston, would it have anything to do with the fact that along with a bunch of other wealthy investors, you had/have, a stake in that school? And while I have you face-to-face, do you care to comment on your ownership of a sperm bank and a fertility clinic here in town?”

The senator feigned astonishment. “Is it a slow day at the
Chronicle,
Miss Dancer? Where
do
you people come up with this stuff?”

“Hackers!” Tessie said smartly. “The kind that make a living trolling for stuff like this and getting bonuses for a job well done.” She felt pleased to see tiny beads of perspiration blossom on the man’s forehead.

Senator Preston stood up and held out his hand to signal that the interview was over. “I make it a practice never to comment on gossip.”

Tessie stood up, towering over the senator, who was a short man. She took a moment to wonder if he had a Napoleon complex. “But that’s the point, Senator, it isn’t gossip. I’m talking about actual records. By the way, by any chance did you see the founder of PAK Industries on television this morning? Maybe you were still en route and missed it. The only reason I mention it is that I remembered a photo op you had with Mr. Kelly a week or so ago. Today he said he was looking for 8446. Any idea what that means?”

“Now you
are
talking in riddles. Maybe it’s his lottery number or something. I’ll call you the next time I’m in town, and perhaps we can have breakfast. I don’t like cutting you so short, but I really have to keep to my schedule. Thanks for stopping by.”

“I expect to be hanging around here a lot from here on in, Senator. I can see myself out.” When she reached the door, Tessie called over her shoulder, “I’ll be sure to quote you verbatim, Senator.”
Made you sweat, didn’t I, you little prick.

The moment the door closed behind the reporter, Hudson Preston shifted into high gear. He issued orders like the general he was, pretended to be interested in what his aides were saying before he waved airily. He stomped from the office and headed straight for the Town Car that would take him to his eighty-plus-year-old father and his palatial mansion.

By the time the Town Car ground to a stop under the portico, Hudson Preston thought he was going to black out. He could hardly wait to blurt out the news to the old man, who virtually lived on the second floor of the ugly mansion.

At eighty-six, Douglas Preston was still an imposing figure, and he was ordinarily still capable of making his son cower in his presence, but not today.

Hudson slammed and locked the door to the lavish sitting room where his father was watching an old Wimbledon tennis match. He reached out a stubby hand to turn off the television. “There’s a reporter at the
Chronicle
who’s figured out what’s been going on. She came to see me this morning. She knows, Father.”

“That’s impossible,” the old man said, pressing the
ON
button on the remote.

Hudson turned off the set again. “Not only does she know, there’s this guy Peter Aaron Kelly, the founder of PAK Industries, who gave an interview on television this morning and announced to the world that he’s looking for 8446. Do you want to know what 8446 is, Father, or do you prefer being kept in the dark?”

The old man, who still had all his hair, glared at his son. “I’m assuming he was one of the donors. He’ll never find anything. Why do you always get so upset over trivial things? When people like Kelly go on television, it only means he has nothing and is looking for something. I saw the short interview. The man is a disgrace to the garment industry. He looked like a street person. He has a number, and that’s all he has.”

“Well, guess what, Father! That kid is still on the loose. If those two find a way to meet, your wrinkled old ass is going to be sitting in the slammer. The world won’t give a damn if you gave away free drugs to starving nations or not. All they’re going to see and remember is the slaughter of all those kids and teachers at the academy.”

“Something else you managed to botch up, Hudson. You were told to oversee that project and, as usual, you fouled it up. God help us all if you ever make it to the White House.”

The tennis match appeared on the screen again. Hudson turned it off for the third time.

“I want you to listen to me very carefully, Father. This might surprise you, but that man, Peter Kelly, is quite a bit richer than you are. He has more clout than you
ever
had. Or I will ever have. People love the man because he does good, wonderful things for mankind and he does them with very little fanfare. Unlike you, and, yes, unlike me. He’s on a mission, and he is not—are you listening to me, Father?—he is not going to give up. On the ride here I accessed the data on my memory stick, and the boy is a match for 8446. That means the kid is Pete Kelly’s son. Now you can say something, Father.”

The old man seemed to shrivel in front of his son’s eyes. “How did this happen, Hudson? It was foolproof. We covered all the bases.”

Hudson sat down on a hassock. He wrapped his arms around his pudgy knees. “It happened when you ordered a wholesale slaughter of all those children. That’s what happened. I told you to just let them go off on their own once they turned eighteen, but you wouldn’t listen. None of this would have happened if you
had
listened to me. Now you are going to be hounded unmercifully, and you’ll go to jail, where you will die, but only after you, after we, become a media circus. Your whole life will be aired and dissected, and you will get to the point where you want to kill yourself, which you might well do. Even in death, they’ll pick at your bones.”

“Then do something about it, Hudson. Make it all go away.”

“You must be senile, Father. Tell me how I could do that. Under the guise of conducting research at the fertility lab, they created human guinea pigs, children with no families and no parents…who could be secreted away to become the ongoing clinical-testing subjects for the drugs our firm manufactured. You said no regulations to worry about. No government interference, no concerned parents. You said other drug companies would have to spend decades developing and testing on animals before they could even think about giving them to a human subject, but that our company could test them immediately. When they start their probe, they’ll see how Preston Pharmaceuticals recovered from the crapper we were in, and the sudden megagrowth will attest to the diabolical genius of your plan. There you have it, Father Dearest. Chew on it, and I hope to hell you choke on it.”

“How dare you speak to me in such a manner?” the old man sputtered.

“How dare I? How dare I not speak to you like this? You can do whatever the hell you want, but I’m getting out of here as soon as I can. I have no desire to participate in the free fall that is just around the corner. I simply came here to warn you. Do what you want. Tell me you understand what I’ve just told you.”

“What I understand is that you’re a traitor to this family. Get out of my sight. I never want to see you again. Do you hear me, Hudson?”

“Oh, I hear you, all right. But that’s my line, Pater. I wish to God I had turned you in to the authorities myself before I ever agreed to help you try to hide this by killing those children.” Without another word, Hudson struggled to his feet and left the room. Even before he closed the door he could hear the tennis match come to life on the big-screen TV set.

Hudson Preston suffered through the short ride to his California home. He wasn’t the least surprised to find the house empty. He wasn’t sure, but he rather thought his wife was in Europe. He vaguely remembered hearing something about fashion shows. Thank God. He headed straight for the bar, where he poured himself a tumbler of hundred-year-old cognac. He downed it in three swallows, his throat burning from the searing liquor. He looked at the empty glass and poured another.

When he felt loose as a goose, he made his way back to his office, where he sat down to contemplate what could very well be a very dim future. He’d always known deep in his gut that this day would come. Well, he’d set up things for this eventuality, so he might as well get cracking on it.

Hudson opened the wall safe and stared at the contents. There was no money inside, nothing valuable, not even his wife’s jewelry. He reached for the only thing in it: a plain brown envelope given to him and all the others that made up the consortium. His father had one, too, but Hudson doubted he’d ever use it. Well, he wasn’t his father.

Hudson spilled the contents onto his desk as he did his best to remember all the instructions that had been drilled into his head. First, he needed to insert the special battery, kept charged at all times, into the phone. He did so. The instructions for using the high-tech encrypted phone were seared into his brain. All he had to do was make one phone call, then wait six hours, at which point he was to leave and pretend he was going for a walk. He was to dress down, which meant casually. He wasn’t to take his wallet, his ID, or anything personal, just his keys. At some point during his walking route he would be whisked away to a safe haven, where others would take charge. He looked down at his watch. In six hours it would be five thirty. A short stroll before dinner wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for someone like him. Or, would it?