Bounty

Chapter 10

I walked down the long staircase to the ballroom below. There were at least twenty large round tables, set for a fancy party. An orchestra played in the back of the room. Chopin, I guessed. Guests in ball gowns and tuxedos glided around, mingling and drinking.

I was reminded of the evening entertainment in Chechnya. They had tables and live entertainment, too, but the comparison stopped there. This was a Cinderella-style ball, a world away from what I suffered only days before. You've come a long way, baby, I thought.

I was reminded of Brodie, as well. He had surprised me that night in Chechnya, and I found myself wishing he would surprise me again. It was his magical everything again, turning my head.

I wanted his magical everything.

Wishful thinking aside, showing up at the home of the man who was heading up the search for him would be suicide. Brodie was not dumb, and he didn't give up. I wondered if his efforts would be in vain and if he would be trying to prove his innocence for years to come, long after he forgot about me.

I found table number three. It was covered in black and white linens and a centerpiece of lilies and orchids.

"Lassie, please tell me you are Abigail Williams, and I can die verra, verra happy." A man in a kilt, kneesocks, and a frilly shirt took my hand in his and pumped it up and down. He was young and handsome and reminded me a bit of Brodie. They were both tall and muscular, but Brodie had a lot more obvious intelligence, and no way would he be so free with his words.

"Are you at table three, too? I suppose you're my table companion," I said.

"I dinna know that fer a fact, but I saw your name on my table, and I slipped my place card next to you." He winked at me. "I must be the smartest man here or the luckiest. Either way, I get the company of the bonniest lass of the evening."

He pulled out a chair for me to sit. The table had places for eight people, and there were already two couples sitting there, busy chatting and drinking the champagne, which the waiters served freely.

"Yer a Yank, then?" he asked, taking a seat next to me.

"I am."

"Gerard. Gerard Frasier," he supplied.

"I'm from New York, originally, but I live in London now."

Gerard flashed me a smile. "Lovely coincidence. I live in London, as well. We'll have to see each other often, then. I'll be sure to show you a good time."

Yuck. Gerard liked to talk, and he liked to touch me. He invaded my space with a sense of entitlement that only the entitled could pull off. Since my dress was backless, his hand rested on my skin, making my flesh crawl, which was an unexpected reaction.

He was a rich, handsome, attentive Scotsman, and I was supposed to be getting on with my life. It would have been a smart move to give Gerard a go, but he made me squirm in my seat in a bad way. I didn't want to be anywhere near him. I didn't even want to know what he wore under his kilt.

"Do you like planes, lass? I have a brae Lear that's itching to fly somewhere nice. How about it?"

"Terrible fear of flying," I said. I scanned the room, trying to get anyone else's attention.

"Oh." He was visibly disappointed for a moment, but then he smiled, arriving at a solution. "That's not a problem. I can slip something in your drink, and you'd be willing to do anything."

My flesh crawled even more, and I shrugged out of his reach. "No, thanks."

"What's the problem? I've done it before."

"I think this is my seat." A tall man with a thick head of gray hair put his hand on Gerard's chair, claiming it. He had a pronounced southern accent. I got a pang of homesickness, realizing that an American was near. Gerard reluctantly got up and moved to the other side of the table, and the southerner and his wife took the two seats next to me on my left.

"I thought we'd never get here," the wife said, throwing her clutch on the table. "Everything is all twisted around. Driving on the wrong side of the road. Accents so I can't understand a word they say."

"I'm Congressman Stephen Rollins," the man said and shook my hand.

"Congressman, nice to meet you. I'm Abigail Williams."

"An American! Cynthia, they seated us next to an American."

"Well, bless their hearts," said his wife, Cynthia.

She motioned for a champagne-bearing waiter to come over. She held out her glass and watched him pour. She took a large sip and sat back in her chair. "I hope they serve us something decent to eat," she said to me. "Damned people eat slop covered in cream sauce. No wonder they all look like sickly potatoes."

Cynthia didn't look like a sickly potato. She looked like a much richer vegetable, like asparagus or possibly a really skinny artichoke, out of season. She was all about the bling, and she screamed cold, hard cash. The congressman treated Cynthia right.

"So, how is it that a U.S. congressman is invited to this gala?" I asked.

"Oh, Gairloch is an old friend. An old friend."

"He's come around to the house in South Carolina many times," Cynthia said. "He's a bit strange, if you ask me, but he comes from good people. What does it take to get some more champagne around here? Can't they just leave the damned bottle on the table?"

I was getting thirsty, too. I looked around for the champagne waiter.

"Is this what you're looking for?"

Gerard was back, and he had somehow managed to abscond with a full bottle of champagne. He filled my glass and handed Cynthia the bottle. "I dinna like being separated from you, lass. You're the best thing about tonight. You mind terribly if I sit here on your right?"

I was racking my brain for a good excuse, and I had just settled on telling him about my history with athlete's feet, when we were interrupted.

"You're not planning on stealing my seat, are you?"

Jake Logan tapped Gerard on the shoulder. He stood with his back straight and a cannot-be-refused smile. He was a work of art. His tuxedo made him look even more dashing and blindingly handsome. Over the band's latest number, I heard Cynthia's sharp intake of air at the sight of him.

Gerard took stock of him, too. Sure, Logan was pretty, but he was also an imposing figure. Six feet tall, nothing but muscle, and most likely armed to the teeth, Gerard could obviously sense that Logan was not a man to be trifled with.

"No, of course not," Gerard said. "Take your seat."

Logan bowed courteously to me and took the seat to my right.

"Why, Abigail Williams," he said, snapping his cloth napkin open and laying it on his lap. "I must say, this is the nicest of surprises."

"What are you doing here?" I hissed through my teeth. I told myself that I was not happy to see him, and I would not let myself ask him about Brodie.

"Sublime gala, beautiful surroundings, fascinating people, how could I refuse the invitation?"

"You were invited?" I was surprised. I couldn't make out what Logan's real relationship with Gairloch was and why a mercenary would be welcome in an English mansion thick with politicians and the world's wealthiest.

Logan leaned forward and introduced himself to the rest of the table.

The congressman seemed delighted. He also seemed sloshed. He had finished Cynthia's bottle and was almost done with another. "I'm Congressman Stephen Rollins, and this is my wife, Cynthia. What is it you do, Mr. Logan?"

"Please call me Jake. I'm in hedge funds, Congressman. Mercen Funds. Have you heard of us?" I nearly fell over when Logan took a card out of his breast pocket and handed it over to the congressman. He studied it awhile.

"You look familiar to me. Doesn't he look familiar, Cynthia?"

"I'd like him to look familiar," she said, giving Logan her best come hither look. I saw the cougar fantasy play out in her head. At any moment, she was going to bound across the table and attack Logan.

"Maybe you've seen me around," said Logan. "I've had a few careers."

The congressman guffawed and washed down another glass. "I know all about that. I've had many careers, too."

The waiters came around with our first course and a bottle of whiskey. The congressman and Cynthia started with a couple big tumblers full of whiskey. They were working their way toward blotto-land, fast.

"That's what I love about America," the congressman opined after a while. "It's all about second chances. I'm a prime example of second chances."

"A truer word was never spoken," Cynthia said.

"Would you believe that I was a common criminal before I became a congressman?"

Logan shook his head in surprise, but I couldn't help but notice his mouth curl up at the ends in a smile that said he wasn't surprised in the least.

"I feel I can speak freely here," the congressman said. "I'm among friends, after all. I'll tell you, Jake, I used to deal cocaine."

Everyone's fork stopped midair between their plates and their mouths. They all moved in slow motion, as if everyone was trying to maintain normalcy but not miss a word.

"Crack cocaine," Cynthia provided.

"Yes, crack cocaine. I sold that on the street. And I made a lot of money doing it. A lot of money, Jake. Then, one day, God spoke to me. He said, 'Stephen, the crack cocaine business is a good business, but you have more important things to do with your life.' Now, do you think I believed him?"

"Yes," I said. I was hooked on the story, too. Crack cocaine-selling congressmen don't come around every day, and crack cocaine-selling congressmen who spoke to God were one in a thousand, one in a hundred, tops.

People act funny when they're overseas. They think their words and actions will never reach home, and so they say anything. It was a wonderful reporter moment. But just like with crazy Montou, I couldn't use any of it in my new career as features editor for a magazine that focused on skirt lengths and high tea. Nevertheless my former journalist self was frothing at the mouth to write down every single word.

"No, Miss Williams," he continued. "No, I did not. I told God to go f**k himself. I said, 'God, go f**k yourself.'"

He took a bite of salad, washed it down with another whiskey, and wiped his mouth. "Now, what do you think God did?" he asked, his voice low and dramatic, waiting for the table's response. Several people threw out guesses, and there was one murmuring of profanity from the other side of the table.

"I'll tell you what he did. I was driving my Mercedes 700 Series down the street. I had just sold a whole lot of crack cocaine, and I was thinking about what kind of theater system I wanted installed in my house, when there was a huge boom. Can you guess what it was that made that boom? You will never guess. Jake, I had run over a man."

"He wasn't a very nice man, sweetheart," Cynthia said.

"No, he wasn't very nice. He was a drug addict. I can assure you nobody cried when he was run down, but run him down I sure did. I must have swerved a bit to the right, and I clipped him off the sidewalk, and wouldn't you know it, that little bastard flew up six feet in the air and landed splat on my car. Half of his body crashed right through my windshield."

I took another swig of my champagne.

"He had one arm clean through the glass and one leg halfway through, and he kept swiping at me to get me to stop or something," the congressman continued.

"You didn't stop?" This came from Gerard, across the table, not altogether horrified like the rest of us, but oddly transfixed, like people who slow down as they pass an accident on the freeway.

"No way was I going to stop. I had one hundred thousand dollars' worth of crack cocaine in the trunk of my car, and I had fifty thousand dollars of cash in the front seat. Besides, I was known to take a little of the inventory from time to time for personal use, and I wasn't going to let the authorities get me in that condition."

"His momma didn't raise any fools," added Cynthia. I nodded, vigorously.

"All the way home with that man screaming and trying to grab the steering wheel and blood pouring out of him onto my black leather interior, I thought: Jesus f*****g Christ, why are you picking on me? I was just minding my own business, and now I'm up to my elbows in big trouble. But you think God listened to me? Do you?"

Everyone at the table shook their heads in unison.

"Of course he listened to me! It was no less than a miracle. There I sat in my car in my garage. The man had bled quite a bit by then and had calmed down enough to let me think. And I'm sitting there, and I'm flipping through the radio stations, trying to find something good, and there out of nowhere came Christina Aguilera's 'Genie in a Bottle' song. Do you know it?" The congressman sang us a few bars. It was never my favorite. I thought it was a waste of her great voice.

"Genie in a Bottle. Genie in a Bottle. I kept thinking of it over and over in my head. 'I'm your genie in a bottle. Come, come, come on and let me out.' Well, there it was right there. God was telling me to let my genie out of my bottle."

I looked at him blankly.

"My genie was my potential, don't you see? And I don't mean just making shitloads of money. Six months later, I was congressman for my district and head of the weapons appropriations committee."

"What happened to the man?" I asked.

"What man?"

"The man in the windshield!"

"Oh, the next day I told him I would take him out and give him a thousand dollars and enough crack to last a week if he kept his mouth shut, and he did. I'd never tell this story back home. Hell, who would believe me?"

He broke out in laughter, and there were little chuckles around me. "Anyway, it's all about second chances. Look at Cynthia, there isn't a body part on her that hasn't had a second chance. Her face, behind, breasts, all second chances and paid by me. So, Jake, don't worry if you were parking cars before this hedge fund business. It's all good with me."

Logan turned to me. "Would you like to dance?"

"Huh?" I had forgotten he was there.

Logan stood and put his hand out. "B-but we're in the middle of dinner service," I stammered. "Nobody is dancing."

"Nonsense," he said. "Where there's music, there's dancing. Please don't reject me, Abby. I don't think I could take that." He flashed his smile, and I could have sworn his eyes twinkled.

He escorted me onto the dance floor, his hand on the small of my back. All eyes were on us as we passed by the tables. We were definitely standing out, and I wondered how wise that was. Logan seemed to read my mind.

"We've already been seen by everybody. A little dance won't hurt anything."

He spun me, and we began our waltz. He was a flawless dancer. He changed me from a clumsy foot-stomper to all grace and style.

"The congressman must not realize I'm a reporter," I noted.

"If he does or not, he doesn't care. He knows all of Gairloch's guests are safe. He has nothing to fear."

I let that sink in a moment. I was about to ask what exactly he meant, when he gave me an approving look.

"I must say, Abby, this dress-what there is of it-is stunning. You make it stunning. You're simply beautiful," he said.

"Thank you," I said, blushing. Jake laughed. "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing. I was just thinking of Iain seeing us like this, me holding you closely, my hand on your bare back. Ha! He would turn the place over and grind me into pulp."

"Why would he do that?"

Logan looked at me sideways. "You know damned well why he would do that."

"I guess the fact that you find the idea of him grinding you into pulp funny means you don't think there's any chance that Brodie will show up?" I tried not to sound desperate and sad, but I wasn't too successful. Logan lifted my chin.

"Everybody's wondering where Iain is tonight. If I had a pound for every 'Where's Brodie' question I've gotten this evening, I would be a rich man."

"You are a rich man."

"That's true, but you can never be too rich, Abby."

"Who's been asking you about him?" I asked. Suddenly, I was feeling protective, too.

"Well, Gairloch for one, and that's odd. Normally, he understands the importance of keeping a trail of secrecy." Logan scanned the room. His boyish optimism was clouded over with worry.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Have you seen Evelyne around?"

"I don't know who that is."

"Evelyne Wilhelmina Glod. She's Gairloch's right hand man and probably right hand in other things, as well. Terrible b***h. I don't like not knowing where she is."

"No," I said. "I haven't even seen Gairloch."

The music changed to a jazz tune, and Logan twirled me around, making conversation more difficult. When he held me close again, I asked him what I wanted to know. "What did you say to all those people who wanted to know where Brodie was?"

"Ah, poor, dear Abby. I told them what I have to tell you."

"Is he dealing with the Russians?"

"Russians? No, there are no Russians to deal with. I don't know where he is."

"Oh."

"But he knows where you are."

I perked up. "He does?"

"Yes, you're in the lion's den. And I've come to take you back to New York, personally, before you're eaten alive."

I stopped dancing. "No, I'm staying right here."

Logan clutched me around the waist.

"Do you know what Iain would do to me if I let you stay in London?" he asked, serious. "Besides that, you're not safe here," he continued. "You're not safe here. Do you understand me?"

I couldn't imagine why a gala would be dangerous, but I had no time to answer him. We were interrupted by a debonair older man, who tapped Logan on the shoulder.

"May I?" he asked.

"Yes, of course, Emmett," Jake answered, but he was slow to release me and didn't go far, hovering over us, concern furrowing his perfect brow.

"I had to get a chance to dance with the loveliest creature at my party. If I'm not mistaken, you are Abigail Williams, are you not?" he asked me.

"Yes, Mr.-"

"Gairloch. Emmett Gairloch. Perhaps you've heard of me?"

"Yes, of course. You're my host. It's a great party, and you have an incredible home. Thank you so much for inviting me."

So this was Brodie's papa bear, the man who was supposedly out to get him and arrest him, and the one who what? Was Brodie's friend?

"You and Jake make a sublime couple. So very beautiful the two of you, and you dance as one person."

"Thank you."

"I suppose you and Jake grew close with that whole unfortunate Chechnya thing."

My knees buckled. "Chechnya?" I asked.

"Terrible business, but all's well that ends well."

I had assumed Brodie worked alone in my kidnapping. He told me that his boss Montou wasn't involved. Perhaps Gairloch was Brodie's true boss. Maybe that's what Logan meant by papa bear.

"You look surprised, Miss Williams," Gairloch said. "Our dear friend Iain likes to play his cards very close to the vest. He probably never even mentioned me during your ordeal. But I have to admit, I had a hand in it. Very profitable business, kidnapping, but perhaps a trifle messy."

He could have been auditioning for a Pine-Sol commercial, not talking about the abduction and possible murder of a person.

He looked at me sideways, studying my reaction. "Not messy in your case, thank heaven," he said. "Not the way I envisioned the situation, but still, I was recompensed. So, should I complain?"

I shook my head.

"I pride myself on my level head, no matter what the problem. Our Chechen friend doesn't seem to be much of a problem anymore. But problems are like mold, Miss Williams. You think you've got them cleaned up, and poof, they grow back, worse than ever. Too bad Iain couldn't make it to my soiree," he said, looking around. I looked around, too.

"So, how do you know Brodie?" I asked.

Gairloch deftly ignored my question. "I would love to show you around my home. Would you do me the honor?"

"Of course," I said. I hooked my arm in his and walked out of the ballroom. As I left, I turned to see Logan watching me. He was pale as snow and just as frozen in place. I was feeling a bit flushed myself, and my palms started to sweat.

"This is my pride and joy, my little vanity."

"It's just like a scene from Masterpiece Theatre," I said. We were standing in a huge library with leather tomes covering the high walls and fake books covering hidden doorways. The smell of leather and must hung thick in the air. Worn, overstuffed furniture was scattered here and there. Instead of showing me some rare first editions, he guided me to a machine in a corner.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked. I shook my head. "It's a button machine." He handed me a button. On it was a picture of a dove, holding an olive branch in its beak. Underneath was written "Peace."

"It's my little effort at making peace in the world, Miss Williams. War and violence are on their way out."

So says the mastermind behind my kidnapping?

"Your President Bush had his problems," he continued. "But he was onto something with his New World Order idea." He lowered his voice to just above a whisper. "We have a lot of change under way, and I don't want anything getting in the way."

I ran his words through my brain. On their own, they were all perfectly nice, benign words, but the threat in them was implicit. And, I reminded myself, they were directed at me.

"Peace is good," I said. "I have no problems with peace."

I was standing in a gorgeous mansion, in a quiet, relaxing library with a debonair, soft-spoken older man who enjoyed making peace buttons in his spare time, and I had an icy fear creep up my spine, urging my brain to flee before something horrible would happen to me.

Gairloch leaned forward, his face complete seriousness, and he began to recite: "'It must be remembered that there is nothing more difficult to plan, more doubtful of success, nor more dangerous to manage, than the creation of a new system. For the initiator has the enmity of all who would profit by the preservation of the old institutions and merely lukewarm defenders in those who would gain by the new ones.'

"Of course, you know who said that." He waited for my response.

"I'm assuming you didn't get that off the back of a Wheaties box," I said.

"Very funny, Miss Williams. Jake failed to mention just how charming you are. No, it's not from a cereal box. A very wise man named Machiavelli said that. Have you heard of him?"

Yeah, I heard of him. He said something about the ends justifying the means. I hoped Gairloch wasn't talking about my ends.

"I need to know, Miss Williams, where Iain Brodie is. It's vital for me to know. I don't understand why he hasn't informed me of his whereabouts. It's foolish and out of character for him. I can help him. Indeed, only I can help him. You are aware of his sizable problem, are you not?"

I nodded.

"I see how fond you are of Jake. I can make him even more attentive to you, if you so desire. I am not without influence. Just tell me where Iain is."

I cleared my throat and found my voice. "Mr. Gairloch," I heard myself saying. "I would like nothing more than to tell you or anybody just where Iain Brodie is. The bastard drugged and kidnapped me and nearly got me killed. I want justice. Hell, I want him dead."

I don't know why I said it except that it seemed like the right thing to say at the time. I wasn't so sure that giving Gairloch what he wanted would help Brodie. Or me, for that matter.

Gairloch gave me a souvenir peace button and let me find my own way back to table number three. There was no sign of Logan anywhere. So, I sat down and enjoyed the rest of my dinner. The empty seat beside me was much too great a temptation for Gerard, who was three sheets to the wind and dying to show me exactly what was under his kilt.

He and the congressman had been having a competition over who had done more crazy, stupid things in their lives, and the congressman was winning by a landslide. It was more than Gerard could handle.

As an over privileged, muscle-bound Scotsman with a small brain and an unwise lack of inhibition, he had difficulties meeting someone who had wrestled more alligators, jumped off higher bridges, and had done more knuckle-brained shenanigans than he. Gerard wouldn't rest until he could one-up the congressman.

"I set myself on fire once," he said. "And I didn't get a scratch. Not a mark on me." He showed us his arms as proof.

"What does that prove," the congressman said. "You don't have a mark. How do I know you were ever on fire?"

Gerard jumped up and fled from the table. Good, he's finally gone home with his tail between his legs, I thought. Now I could get some food, find Logan, and make my way home.

The night was supposed to be a glamorous affair to take my mind off of Brodie, but instead, it made me think of him all the more. I had to wonder why, if Gairloch was Brodie's friend, he was so desperate to find him in a Machiavellian way. And, I wondered, why-if Gairloch was Brodie's and Logan's friend-Logan was visibly afraid of him. It was clear that Gairloch's relationship with them was more business than personal, but if that was correct, why was a British lord and parliamentarian involved with a group of mercenaries and an international kidnapping?

All that aside, my most burning question was, if Brodie knew where I was, did he send Logan to get me, or was that Logan's idea? And where was Logan in all this?

I started on my dessert when Gerard appeared again. He carried a large red can. "I'll prove it to you," he announced to our table. He opened the can and poured what smelled like gasoline over his left arm.

I jumped up out of my seat and backed away. "What is the point of this trick?" I asked, panic-stricken. "You're not seriously going to set yourself on fire?"

"Got your attention now, have I?" He pulled out a lighter and Whoosh! Up in flames went his arm.

There were screams. I think they were coming from me. Then the tablecloth went up in flames, as well.

The beautiful, rich people stampeded out of the ballroom like teenagers at a rock concert. It was bedlam and dog-eat-dog. I grabbed a pitcher of water and threw it on Gerard, but it didn't make a dent in the fire.

"Roll on the ground!" I screamed. But by that time, he was doing just that, aided by two waiters, who threw a cloth on him to put out the flames. An alarm went off, and I followed the other guests, running out of the mansion.

It wasn't easy to find a taxi home, but I arrived early at my apartment at around ten. My feet were killing me, and I was sure that my hair was singed in a couple of places. I opened the door and froze in my tracks. The light was on, but I was certain I had turned it off before I left. Someone had broken into my apartment. My continuing nightmare was not over, it seemed. I turned on my heels and tiptoed out before I could be killed, but a voice stopped me.

"Aren't you going to say hello to me, Princess?"