Wild Card (Stone Barrington #49)(44)

“I can’t deny that,” Stone said. “I thought they were more careful people.”

“Reckless, sounds more like it.”

“I can’t disagree. Do you feel safe where you are?”

“I’m on a high floor of a very good hotel with two armed guards. I feel safe for now, but tonight I have to speak to a public audience at a bookstore.”

“Viv tells me you will be speaking to an invited audience of press and public officials, plus whoever might be in the bookstore at the time. The location was not advertised.”

“That’s encouraging.”

“Just do what your guards tell you to do, and don’t argue with them. You’ll be fine.”

“If you say so, though your track record on this subject is less than perfect.”

“If you want perfect, I’m sure Viv can find a nice steel room to lock you in.”

Jamie laughed in spite of herself. “Oh, all right. I’m sure I’ll be safe tonight.” They both hung up.



* * *



? ? ?

Early in the evening Bob showed up at Stone’s house.

“What’s the latest?” Stone asked.

“She’s stable and out of the ICU. They put her in a room. Her doctor showed me an X-ray. It was like shooting a bullet through the side of a football without hitting the air bladder inside, so there’s no brain damage. I caught a nap in a reclining chair, then she woke up and talked a bit, but the doctor hustled me out and told me to go home. Sherry wanted it that way, too. I’ll go back tomorrow.”

“Consider yourself at home,” Stone replied.

“What happened to Jamie at LaGuardia?” Bob asked.

Stone told him, then looked at his watch. “She’ll be arriving at the bookstore about now. How about some dinner?”

“Sure.”

They went upstairs to Stone’s study and had a drink first.

“I want to go on the offensive,” Bob said.

“I know you do, and I understand why. Do you understand why you shouldn’t?”

“Because they’ll be expecting me?”

“Exactly. You’ve already nearly burned down their building—or rather, some unknown person did. They’re going to be ready. Wait until they’re not.”

Bob nodded but said nothing.



* * *



? ? ?

    Rance Damien attended dinner with the two Thomases.

“I watched a few minutes of a Joe Box speech,” Henry said. “He wasn’t awful. I didn’t cringe once.”

“He is improving rapidly,” Rance replied, “under the tutelage of Ari. It turns out that he has a remarkable memory, so the teleprompter instructor has been returned to the wild.”

Henry laughed at that, something he didn’t do often, unless there was a woman involved. “He even looks better,” he said.

“That’s because Ari instructed him to have his clothes pressed daily.”

“Tell us about this Ari,” Hank said. “Is he personable?”

“Not in the least,” Rance replied. “He’s blunt to the point of rudeness, and beyond. He has the uncomfortable faculty of always saying what he’s thinking—unadorned.”

“Is he trainable?”

“Not in that regard, I think, but he can learn anything. Mostly, he already has. He would be erudite, if he had any charm.”

“I didn’t know charm was a factor in erudition,” Hank said.

“It is, if you want people to continue to listen to you. A recitation of facts gets pretty cold without charm.”



* * *



? ? ?

Ari Kramer and Annie Lee stood offstage in a school auditorium and listened to Senator Joseph Box orate, except it was more like a chat among friends. Box at times gripped the podium with both hands; at others, he leaned on it with an elbow and emphasized with intensity in his voice but not volume.

“He’s word perfect,” Annie said.

“He certainly is. I don’t think I could have recited my own speech as perfectly. The man should have been on the stage.”

“He is on the stage,” Annie said, “and will be until at least November.”

“I was nervous about this being televised,” Ari said, “but now I’m glad it is. Let’s go and watch the rest on TV. I want to hear what the pundits have to say afterward.”

They arrived in their hotel suite, sat on the edge of the bed, and switched on the TV in time to watch a standing ovation. The local anchorman came on and introduced a panel of New Hampshire newspaper editors.

“They loved him,” Annie said. “Can I scratch your back?”

“It doesn’t itch,” Ari said.

“You shouldn’t take everything I say literally.”

“You mean, scratching my back is a euphemism?”

“As in, ‘You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.’”

“Does your back itch?”

“It’s a different kind of itch,” she said. “Why don’t we start with rubbing your neck? You’ve grown to like that.”

“Yes, please, do that.”