“But he’s probably right, Michael. All the exposé will do is galvanize his supporters and gain him a few new ones.”
“In the short run maybe. But even imbeciles learn eventually.”
“They’re not imbeciles. A little gullible perhaps . . .”
“Whatever,” he replied, taking her hand. “Ready to face your adoring public?”
“Not really.”
“Good. Then follow me, my little kitten.”
“Where?”
“You mentioned something earlier in the evening about my having my way with you.”
“Did I? I don’t remember.”
“It was right after you referred to me as the Stud Machine.”
“Oh,” she said, moving toward the stairwell. “Now I remember.”
“SENATOR Jenkins!”
Stephen Jenkins turned toward the voice. His painted, vote-getting smile, already applied to his jowly face, was holding up quite nicely. “Hello, Reverend. How wonderful to see you!”
Senator Jenkins and Reverend Sanders exchanged firm handshakes. Sanders, the senator knew, was one of the most influential men in the South. Over the course of the past decade, the religious right had been crucial in Senator Jenkins’ reelection campaigns, and no one delivered their votes like the Reverend Ernest Sanders. If Sanders was on your side, he praised you as a descendant of the Prophets. If he was against you, well, Satan received kinder treatment in his sermons. Luckily for Jenkins, the reverend had backed him. Without his grassroots support, the senator might have lost in the last go-around to that upstart liberal the Democrats had pitted against him.
“Thank you, Stephen. Quite a party, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes,” Jenkins replied.
Without so much as a head nod or knowing glance, the two men stepped down the long corridor, out of earshot and sight. Their smiles quickly dissolved away. Ernest Sanders leaned toward Jenkins’ ear, his face tight and set. “I’m not very happy about the guest list for this party,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“What the hell is Dr. Harvey Riker doing here?”
“He’s very close to John’s daughter,” Jenkins explained.
“This is not good, Stephen. His being here . . . it helps give him a certain legitimacy, don’t you think?”
The senator nodded, though he really did not agree. He also knew his old friend John Lowell was a hell of a lot more upset at Sanders being here than Riker. John had made it very clear he did not want anyone to know of his association with the televangelist.
“A lot has been happening lately,” Sanders continued. “We’d best prepare ourselves. I think we should all meet next week.”
“Where?”
“At Bethesda.”
The senator nodded again. “Are you in town for long, Reverend?”
“No,” Sanders replied. “I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon. I only came up for the interview and . . . how should I put it?” He paused, thinking. “To keep the holy coalition together.”
Jenkins felt something cold skitter down his back. “I don’t understand.”
Sanders looked straight at Stephen Jenkins. “Nothing to worry about, Stephen,” he said. “I’ll take care of everything.”
SEVERAL hours later Harvey Riker spotted Sara standing by herself near the bar. Finally, he thought, as something akin to relief drifted through him, a chance to speak with her alone. For the past fifteen minutes Harvey had watched Sara and Bradley Jenkins engage in what appeared to be a serious conversation. They were interrupted by Bradley’s father, who moved between them and pulled Bradley away. No surprise there. Harvey knew that Bradley confided in Sara. Senator Jenkins probably did too.
Sara was leaning against her cane, sipping lightly at her drink. Harvey approached her. “There you are,” he began. “I’ve been looking for you all night. Congratulations on the show.”
She kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Harvey. How are you doing?”
“Fine.”
“And the clinic?”
Harvey shrugged. “Okay.”
“Did Michael speak with you yet?”
“About what?”
“About his stomach.”
“No,” he replied. “What about it?”
Sara frowned. “I’m going to kill him.”
“What’s wrong with his stomach?”
“He’s been having terrible stomach pain for over a week now.”
Harvey nodded, finally understanding. “That explains his grimacing all night.”
“I can’t believe him,” Sara continued. “He promised me he would speak to you.”
“Don’t blame him, Sara. I haven’t been the most approachable company this evening. He probably thought it was a bad time.”
“So what’s wrong?”
“I need to talk to you about something important.” Despite Harvey’s earlier vow, he had gone well beyond that fourth martini. He took yet another swish, enjoying the feel of the cool liquid circling in his mouth before he swallowed. He might have been a little tipsy earlier, but his mind became sober and alert now. “It involves the clinic,” he began slowly, weighing each word in his head before it passed his lips, “and I think it involves Bruce’s death.” He stopped.
He motioned with his hand. “Let’s take a walk.” They moved through the French doors and out onto the broad expanse of landscaped grounds. Many guests were outside now, the party spilling from the crowded ballroom onto the lawn and formal gardens beyond. The two strolled in silence past the pool, the cabana, the tennis courts. Sara led Harvey down toward the barn where her father kept the horses. She opened the barn door, releasing the smell of hay and animals. They entered. A horse neighed.
“This is a beautiful estate,” Harvey said.
“Yes, it is.”
He stroked the broad forehead of a large gray horse. “Do you do much riding?” he asked.
Sara shook her head. “Cassandra’s the rider in the family. The doctors did not like the idea of me on a horse as a child, so I never got into it.”
“Oh.”
“So why don’t you tell me what’s up?”
“You’re going to think I’m crazy.”
“Nothing new there.”
Harvey chuckled and then scanned the area to make sure that no one was around. “All right,” he said slowly, “here goes. As you know, Bruce and I have been running the clinic for almost three years now, trying our best to keep all results secret and avoiding the press at all costs.”