The Turning (23 page)

The other attorney asked, “You know them?”

“I’ve seen their operations at work. Barry Mundrose is a bully, and he likes to fight dirty.”

But the news left the other attorney palpably nervous. “I’m really not certain this is a good idea.”

“I don’t care about going after Mundrose,” John quickly interrupted him. “That’s not why I called. I mentioned Mundrose only so you’ll understand they pack a real punch. And I don’t care about my job. Well, I do. But that’s not … There are two issues that can’t wait.”

“I’m listening, Mr. Jacobs.”

“First, they’re threatening the survival of my son’s business.” John related what his son had described. “If he doesn’t have his line of credit restored in forty-eight hours, he goes under. The pastor of Austin’s largest church, Craig Davenport, is trying to help. But we won’t know anything for certain, and this can’t wait.”

“I know Reverend Davenport,” the polished attorney allowed. “He is solid.”

“These tactics sound exactly like Mundrose,” Banks declared. “All right. Give me your son’s details. I’ll get on this immediately. What’s the second issue?”

“My gut tells me these attacks are just an opening maneuver. See how we respond. I need you to go after the power company in a way that gets back to the attackers. Ditto for communications. Straight to the boardroom, or maybe the local town council. Strike from a multitude of different angles. And strike fast.”

The courtroom lawyer did not actually laugh, but the humor was there in his voice. “That doesn’t sound like a ministry approach, Mr. Jacobs.”

“I told you, I’m new to this business. But I’ve been dealing with unions for years.”

“All right. Leave this with me.”

The first attorney fretted, “Shouldn’t we discuss tactics?”

“Absolutely,” Ron Banks barked. “Long as it doesn’t slow me down.”

John smiled at the relish he heard in Banks’s voice. “You can reach me at this number,” he told them.

WESTCHESTER COUNTY

A
s soon as he finished the phone call, John had a word with the  kitchen staff, then went in search of an ally.

Dexter Wise was exactly where the kitchen staff said he’d be found, seated in the grass and leaning against the shed holding the mowing equipment, a sweat-stained hat pulled down low over his brow. High work boots stretched out at the end of long, jean-clad legs. “Mr. Wise?”

“Ain’t no mister ’round here, unless you come looking for my daddy, and he’s long gone.”

“Don’t get up. I’m John Jacobs. Can I join you?”

“Shade is free and the grass don’t mind. Help yourself.”

“Thanks.” He already knew the type. Many truckers were the offspring of cowhands, with a wandering gene constantly hungering for the next open road. John had no trouble with their languid nature or the cautious way they dealt with strangers. “I understand you’re in charge of security around here.”

“There ain’t much to speak of. Miss Ruth won’t have it any other way.”

“Normally I’d agree with her,” John said as he lowered himself down. “But these aren’t normal times.”

“Yeah, I been sniffing that same wind for a day or two.”

“How many guards can you count on if things go south?”

“I done what I could. All the men I hired as gardeners and such have experience running toward trouble.” He counted silently. “Two are on vacation out of state. That leaves us five. Six plus you, if you’re up for it.”

“I don’t have trouble with trouble. But I think I’m probably going to be busy.”

“Yeah, I caught your last spot in front of the cameras. You did good, boss.”

“I appreciate that. Look, is there a group you could call on, help us out here?”

“You mean, like, official security? Miss Ruth—”

“She’s laid up. I’m in charge. And yes, security personnel would be good, so long as they can start immediately. But I’m thinking about something more, well, informal.”

“That word covers a lot of ground.”

“It does.”

Dexter Wise took his time rising to his feet. “Why don’t you and I take us a little drive.”

They took Dexter’s pickup out through the whitewashed gates. John rolled down his window and sat with his face in the wind as they took the highway south. They skirted Bedford and followed the rough city traffic until the sign came up for White Plains. Dexter spoke for the first time since setting off. “Got me a church down this way.”

They skirted the downtown hospital and entered a district Dexter called Mamaroneck. They passed a ratty park and entered a blue-collar district that might have once seen better days, or could possibly have started rough and sunk from there. The church was sandwiched between a homeless shelter and a VFW building. A number of motorcycles were parked on the sidewalk out front. John followed Dexter into the run-down veterans’ building and knew he had asked the right man for help.

They walked a scuffed linoleum-clad corridor and entered a hall about half filled. Most of the attendees wore a combination of denim and leather and body jewelry and fingerless gloves and hard-edged gazes. Dexter bumped fists with several as he approached the empty podium. “I know you haven’t started, but that’s okay, because I’m not supposed to be here right now. But many of you know Miss Ruth, or you should, since she helps finance this program.” Dexter stepped to one side and motioned John forward. “This is a friend.”

Only about half the people were seated. The others stood with the stony patience of people who had been fed various lines for years. John met their gazes as he said, “My name is John Jacobs. I’m serving as temporary spokesman for the group that’s come together up at the Barrett headquarters.”

“You’re that guy on TV.” The woman was as hard as she was large, with a voice to match. She said to her neighbor. “I listened to him the other night. He’s good.”

The man next to her asked him, “You done time, right?”

“Some. A long ways back. I’ve stayed clean for over thirty years. But that’s not—”

“What were you in for?”

“Aggravated assault.” John put up with it because he had no choice. “I was nineteen and as drunk as I was dumb.” He waited through sympathetic laughter. “Let’s get back to today. We’ve become the target of some powerful people. I need roving teams in place to make sure they don’t try and bring the trouble home. Ruth’s not well, and—”

“What’s the trouble with Ruth?”

“Heart.” This from Dexter. “Let the man finish.”

John went on. “I’ve got nothing to go on but what they’ve done so far, which is hide in the shadows and snipe at everybody in reach. But my gut tells me they’re going to come in, and when they do, I want to be ready. You in?”

The chuckles and nods told him what he needed to know.

LOS ANGELES

T
rent and the LA team worked through the evening and into the night. Sometime after ten, Gayle caught wind of what Trent and Dermott were planning. How precisely she became aware of their intentions, Trent had no idea. But by the time they left for the airport just after midnight, she carried herself with a quiet fury. On the drive to the airport, she twice tried to convince him not to do what he intended. When he refused to even discuss the plans he and Dermott had put into motion, she grew frigid with rage. Locking him out. Tightly.

The plane was being refueled, so they settled into the elegant lobby dedicated to private flights. Gayle sat on a sofa and placed her carryall next to her, blocking him out. He seated himself in the chair to her right, where he could study her. Her expression was as cold as marble and as beautiful as a Renaissance statue. Even when she was angry, she remained the loveliest woman he had ever known. He was still trying to find some way of reconnecting when his phone rang. He checked the readout, but the number was blocked. “Trent here.”

“It’s Edlyn.”

It was the first time Mundrose’s daughter had ever called him directly. “Just a minute, Edlyn.” Speaking her name jolted Gayle, as did his putting the phone on speaker and setting it on the table between them. “All right, go ahead. You’re on speaker.”

“Can anyone else hear us?”

“Just Gayle. It’s after one in the morning. We have the terminal to ourselves.”

“Dermott phoned. He felt I should know about your plans. I’m calling to give you the green light.”

Gayle went so pale she looked stricken. Trent said to her as much as Edlyn, “I really feel this could be important.”

“I agree.”

He leaned in, trying to meet Gayle’s gaze, but she remained focused on some internal point. “Did you speak with Barry?”

Edlyn took her time responding. “On matters like this, you don’t need to ask. Ever.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. You’re new. When do you want this to go down?”

“The sooner the better. If Dermott can supply me with the right contacts.”

“He’s never failed us yet. So tonight, then.”

Trent felt the heady flames of danger rise in his gut. “Tonight would be perfect.”

Gayle mouthed the word
perfect
. But she did not speak.

Edlyn continued. “Our music division’s premier band is launching a new album tomorrow. Barry is throwing a party. I want you to come. It’s time you met some people.”

For the first time during that long and wearying day, Trent was focused beyond the next task, the next hour, the need to take down his foe. Her words rang through his body like a gong.

“Trent?”

“I’d be honored.”

“Good. Their cover art is based on your theme. We’ve shifted the song we’re going to launch as their first single to the one closest to your message.”

His
theme.
His
message. “Thank you, Edlyn. So much.”

Edlyn cut the connection with typical abruptness. He had no idea whether she even heard his final words. Trent studied the woman seated across from him. He wanted to ask Gayle to come with him. But her attention remained focused on what only she could see, her features taut with the argument he refused to have with her. There was nothing to be said. He was not budging. So he remained silent.

WESTCHESTER COUNTY

The next morning John sat in the windowless dressing chamber off the main studio. The room was scarcely larger than a walk-in closet, wooden lockers on one side, and a large mirror with a white shelf littered with brushes and cosmetics and cotton pads and tissues on the other. A stack of well-worn Bibles rested on a narrow corner table. John wore one of Bobby Barrett’s suits. He still had the makeup napkin tucked around his collar, and the brilliant lighting showed a point on his cheek where the powder had caked. He sat motionless, staring at his reflection.

He searched for any hint of what he felt going on inside. But all he saw was the same craggy strength, the same determined cut to his jaw. His shoulders still bunched the fabric of his jacket. His eyes were clear and green and held a hint of old pain. His hair was almost all grey now, the color of wet steel. He wanted to ask God for another sign. But there was a hint of dishonesty to the act, as though it should have been enough that Ruth had told him to go and do this thing. Not to mention how the others seemed to accept his new role. So he kept his prayers unspoken, and when the knock on the door announced it was time, he stowed away his fluttering nerves and marched through the door.

Alisha and Heather, the two who had accompanied him over this morning, both embraced him. The black woman smelled slightly spicy, and her hug was powerful enough to insert a new sense of strength to his legs and his resolve. John smiled his thanks, then embraced his wife and walked past the people and entered the lights.

Kevin had stationed a monitor screen to the left of the camera. He waited while the sound technician hooked him up, then—counted him down and pointed to the monitor, which now showed the announcer. The female newscaster was the same woman who had interviewed him before. She might be on the Gospel Channel, but her on-air persona held the same brisk professionalism as the faces on the major networks. “Good morning, John. Thank you for joining us today.”

“Appreciate the invite.”

“Could we start by asking what developments have occurred recently?”

As John gave a quick recap, he found his words hardening into terse bites, the way he dealt with truckers in a crisis. Snow on the highway, blocked roads, late deliveries, engine failure, whatever. Many truckers liked to chatter when they grew nervous. John’s job was to keep them focused, press them to move faster and push harder than they might like. He tried hard not to say such things outright, because the next step was to threaten. And he hated threats of any kind. So he punched with his voice, even when he spoke softly. Like now.