Spellbinder (8 page)

“So that’s the reason for the China Crusade, Howard,” he said, dropping his voice and smiling across the desk in genial conclusion. “It may kill me. And I may fail. Both things are possible. But also, I may succeed. I may pull off something that nobody’s ever done before. And that, Howard, is what it’s all about. That’s what makes me go. That’s why I’m famous—and intend to become still
more
famous.”

“If the Chinese go for it,” Flournoy said, “it’ll be because they’ve figured how to turn a profit. As you say, they’re smart. And tough.”

Holloway smiled. “Just so they
do
go for it. Which they will.” He lowered his voice to a richer, more confidential note. “Just so
Time
covers it. That’s the essential point.”

Flournoy’s thin lips stirred in a pale facsimile of an answering smile. He shrugged, saying quietly, “I can’t argue with you, Austin. And I can’t fault you, either. You want to go to China, I’m with you. We’ll do it. However, since we’re being frank about your health—since
you’re
being frank, which I appreciate—I’d like to ask a question.”

“What’s going to happen after I die. Is that the question?”

Deliberately, Flournoy nodded. “That’s the question, Austin.”

“Well,” he answered, “the plain truth is that I’m damned if I know. I’ve got seventy percent of the stock, as you know, and you’ve got the rest. When I die, Katherine gets thirty percent. Which gives you and Elton equal shares.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that. I really do. But that’s not what I’m asking.”

“I know that’s not what you’re asking. You’re asking who’s going to stand up in front of the cameras. And the answer is, I just plain don’t know. It’ll be either Elton or Teresa—or maybe Bob, for all I know.” He spread his hands wide across the desk. It was a rich, eloquent, truth-laden gesture—of TV quality, no doubt. When his heart behaved, the magic came easily, as gracefully as ever. “It’s up to the faithful, really—the people who send in the dollars. In the end, they’ll decide. Not me.”

“That’s bullshit, Austin. And you know it. You tell the faithful how to feel. And
what
to feel.”

Amiably, he smiled. “Maybe.”

“For God’s sake, put Elton in front of the camera. Now. Bring him along. The Hour’s always had a family motif. That’s its trademark. If Elton doesn’t succeed you, it’ll be like trying to sell Coca Cola without the logo. It just won’t work.”

He smiled—a lazily teasing smile. “I consider that very selfless of you, Howard. Because, if Elton takes over, it’s an even bet he’d fire you.”

“That may be,” Flournoy answered evenly. “I’d lose my salary. But I’d still have thirty percent of a going concern. I’d happily take my chances. I can always get another job.”

“If Teresa takes over, you might have both.”

Again Flournoy’s lips twisted mirthlessly. “You’ve never liked Elton much. Have you?”

Instead of answering, Holloway turned to the intercom, asking: “Is Elton out there, Marge?”

“Yessir. But—” As she hesitated, Holloway sensed tension in her voice. “But Mr. Mitchell’s here, too, sir. He’d like to see you. It’s—” Once more, she hesitated. Then: “It’s important, he said.”

“Send them both in.” As he waited for the tall walnut door to swing open, he exchanged a puzzled frown with Flournoy. Unless it was a matter of life or death—his death—Mitchell wouldn’t intrude. Mitchell would wait to be summoned.

Wearing a khaki safari shirt that bulged over a fast-growing paunch, Elton entered the office first. Pointedly, Holloway frowned at the shirt and flared slacks. Dressed so casually, Elton thought he was asserting his in-the-family prerogative. But, instead, he was revealing—once again—his insensitivity to accepted procedures within the organization.

Walking close behind, Mitchell appeared, his stolid, broad-shouldered, blue-suited presence a reassuring contrast. At age fifty, Mitchell was totally dedicated, totally loyal. Like his squared-off, heavily muscled body, Mitchell’s face was sternly sculpted of heavy, durable material. Elton’s face was also broad and heavy. But the material was puffy and flaccid, without strength or substance.

Yet, because his name was Holloway, Elton was entitled to sit in one of the two comfortable leather armchairs placed directly in front of the desk, for principals. Mitchell, as expected, pulled a smaller straightback chair up to the desk—and waited, patiently, for recognition.

Immediately, Holloway turned to Mitchell.

“What is it, Lloyd?”

Mitchell cast a brief, regretful glance at Elton and Flournoy before he turned earnestly in his chair, facing Holloway directly.

“It’s Mrs. Holloway,” he said quietly. “She’s been in an accident.”

Reacting involuntarily, Flournoy snapped, “What kind of an accident?”

Still with his eyes fixed implacably on Holloway, Mitchell said, “It’s a traffic accident.”

Holloway felt himself sag suddenly back in his chair. For years, she’d been with him. Drunk or sober, in sickness or in health, she’d never missed a performance. The Hour was a family affair—Flournoy’s words. Without the family—without Katherine and Elton and Carrie and the three much-publicized grandkids, all of them a team, The Hour would lose credibility, lose impact.

The queen mother, a columnist had once called Katherine. Always serene. Always smiling. She’d always been perfect for the part.

Weak, vulnerable Katherine—a helpless drunk. For a bottle a day, she served faithfully and well.

“Is she—” Elton licked at full, slack lips. “Is she hurt?” Suddenly Elton’s eyes shone, as if he might cry.

“No,” Mitchell answered steadily, still speaking to Holloway. “No, she’s not hurt. What happened, you see—well, it was a terrible coincidence, I guess you’d say. Or, more like it, several coincidences. There were just two people in the house, when there should’ve been three, besides Mrs. Holloway. Calder was taking the Cadillac for gas, and he didn’t tell Susan. He didn’t expect to be gone long—and he wasn’t. But then Miss Fletcher had a dental appointment, downtown. She told Susan she was going. And, before she left, Miss Fletcher looked in on Mrs. Holloway, and saw she was sleeping. She—Miss Fletcher—didn’t plan to be gone longer than an hour. But then, Susan decided to go to the store for some spices, or something. She thought Calder was in the garage, working. She thought she saw him through the garage window, she claims. She also claims that she tried to reach him on the intercom, and couldn’t—which made her think something was wrong with the intercom. So she decided to run out to the store. She wasn’t gone for more than a few minutes.

“But, anyhow—” Mitchell sighed heavily. “Anyhow, Mrs. Holloway apparently got out of bed. She, ah—” Mitchell shifted uncomfortably in the chair. Resting on either knee, his hands clenched as he said, “She apparently didn’t have any more, ah, gin left. And Miss Fletcher doesn’t give her another bottle until five o’clock, as I understand it—just before dinner. And all this happened just a little after two. So, anyhow—” Mitchell cleared his throat, and lifted his bulldog chin, as if to accept a blow. “Anyhow, Mrs. Holloway apparently got the keys to the silver Mercedes from the board in the garage, and she got in the car, and she drove down to the shopping center, off Montecito, where there’s a liquor store. And—” Now Mitchell slowly shook his head as he doggedly continued: “And, when she was in the parking lot, she apparently took a wrong turn. Someone blasted her with a horn, and she got rattled, I guess. So, without looking behind her, she put the car in reverse, and stepped down on the gas, hard. There was a woman behind her, with two little kids—two girls, three and five years old. And—” Mitchell blinked regretfully, shaking his head. “And all three of them are in the hospital. One of the girls—the older one—has a skull fracture, and she’s unconscious. The other one—the youngest one—has internal injuries.”

“Where’s Mrs. Holloway?” Flournoy asked sharply.

“At police headquarters,” Mitchell answered, for the first time looking at Flournoy directly. “Hollywood division. I have a friend there. He called me, as soon as he saw her come in. She hadn’t been booked when he called. And, just a few seconds later, Miss Fletcher called me.”

“Why the hell did she call you?” Flournoy asked. “Why didn’t she call me? Or Austin, for Christ’s sake?”

“Because,” Mitchell answered stolidly, “Miss Fletcher didn’t know what happened, when she called me. She only knew that Mrs. Holloway was missing.”

“In other words,” Flournoy mused, “it’ll probably be some time before we’ll be notified officially. There’re procedures the police follow—red tape.” As he spoke, he tugged sharply at his right earlobe. It was the only sign of stress that Flournoy ever revealed.

“That goes for the reporters, too,” Elton offered. “They probably don’t know, either.”

“Don’t bet on it.” Flournoy was standing now. His legs were braced, his head held aggressively high. With the situation assessed, he’d made his decision and was ready to act. Watching him, Holloway realized that his heart was hammering. The demon had come awake, threatening to kill him where he sat helplessly gripping the arms of his chair, as if it were his only refuge. Around him, the room was tilting precariously. Multicolored spots were everywhere, madly dancing.

“You stay here with your father, Elton,” Flournoy ordered. “Don’t take any calls, except from me.” Without waiting for a reply, Flournoy turned to Mitchell. “You come with me, Lloyd.”

Not moving, Mitchell questioned Holloway with his dark, steady eyes.

With great effort, Holloway nodded. Whatever else happened, he must let Flournoy leave—before Flournoy discovered that the demon within him had awakened.

Because, surely, Flournoy and the demon would ultimately join together. It was inevitable.

F
ASTENING THE TOP BUTTON
of the suede jacket, Denise tucked her chin down into the soft woolen scarf she’d twisted twice around her neck and thrown back across her shoulder. She’d crocheted two matching scarfs during the month before Christmas, and put them both under their small Christmas tree. Unwrapping the present, Peter had teased her about the matching scarfs, accusing her of a his-and-her motorcycle jacket mentality. But then he’d kissed her—tenderly, yet fervently. She’d been sitting on the floor, unwrapping a gaudy, overpriced present from Elton. She’d put the present aside and kissed Peter back, hard. Moments later, they were making love on the floor, amid the crackling confusion of discarded Christmas wrappings. It had been a wild, wonderful meeting. Whatever happened between them, now or in the future, she would always remember that Christmas morning.

“How come you never wear your scarf?” she asked.

“I wear it all the time. When it’s cold.”

“It’s cold tonight.”

“Tonight, yes. But not when we left the city.”

She looked up into the night sky. Low clouds were scudding across an almost full moon, high in a star-spangled sky. They were walking on a narrow gravel path that twisted down a hillside to the parking area shared by a half dozen houses built high on a Mill Valley hill that overlooked San Francisco Bay and the city beyond. One of the glass-and-redwood houses belonged to Ann and Cyrus Wade. Of all their friends, they felt most at ease with Ann and Cy. Whenever the two couples got together, they’d always shared something special. Yet, during the entire evening they’d just spent together, before and after dinner, conversation had lagged. Their normally easy, confident ambience had somehow eluded them.

As he so often did, Peter articulated her thoughts:

“That wasn’t much of an evening. The food was great. But everything else was off. Just a little off.”

“I know. I was just thinking the same thing.”

For a moment they walked in silence down the steep, gravel-slippery path. A month ago, after a party, Peter had slipped and fallen on this same path—hard.

“Cy and I had lunch a couple of weeks ago,” Peter offered. “He said that Ann wants to get pregnant. He’s not so sure he likes the idea. I’ll bet that was the problem, tonight. I’ll bet they’re fighting about it.”

“Once they had a baby, Cy would love it.”

“I’m not so sure,” he answered. “Cy’s very self-centered, you know. And he’s determined, too. Very, very determined. First and foremost, he thinks of himself as a conceptual artist. That’s his self-image, and he’s deadly serious about it. Everything else—being a husband, being a father—that comes second, with Cy.”

Like you
, she was tempted to say, teasing him. But, to Peter, his determination to succeed as a film writer wasn’t a joking matter. It was a lesson she’d learned early in their relationship—and always forgot, to her sorrow. Peter was thirty years old, and time was beginning to torment him. For thirty-two hours a week, from ten at night to six in the morning, he worked on the docks, loading cargo. Thirty hours a week, to the hour, he spent writing scripts. In the two years they’d been together, Hollywood had called twice. Both times, his enthusiasm and blind faith had been pitifully, ruthlessly betrayed by glib shoestring producers who promised to make Peter rich and famous—provided he’d agree to give them a year’s option on the script for almost nothing. The second time it happened, he’d vowed to give it all up. But, the next day, he’d come home from the docks, as usual, at six-thirty
A.M.
And, as usual, he’d started writing at seven, stopping only to make a pot of coffee. If she was home, she never disturbed him until eleven o’clock, when he went to bed. On the days he didn’t work on the docks, he wrote eight hours a day. It was a long, discouraging struggle. And, at age thirty, the outcome was still in doubt. Peter never admitted to discouragement. But she could sense the doubts he sometimes felt in the small things he said—and didn’t say.

So, instead of teasing him, she decided to say, “Ann’s determined. If she wants a baby, I’m willing to bet that, this time next year, they’ll have a baby.”

For several long, gravel-crunching strides, they walked in silence. Without looking at him, she could sense that, for Peter, it was a somber silence. So she wasn’t surprised when he quietly said, “What about you, Denise? Ever think about a baby?”