The function ended at ten, late enough for most guests, so Hank decided to treat the travelling campaign team to drinks at the Railcar, a nightclub overlooking the tracks near the B&M Rail Yard. His family trust owned a one-third share of the club.
Once inside, Isabel turned to both Ed and Gregory—Ed was now also full-time on the campaign—“Not many voters… it’s fake-ID-city in here.” But over the pounding doof-doof of the music, if you could call it that, neither man could hear her.
Hank hustled them over to his showpiece. “My idea,” he pointed to the Cocktail Wall.
“He’s had an idea!” Gregory tisked.
Isabel didn’t catch the comment, though his smirk told her it was a slam of some sort. She scanned the Wall, which was entirely black apart from the flashing fluoro discs, which were the glass faces of, she counted, thirty refrigerated cylinders slipped horizontally into the wall and filled with every vibrantly coloured liquor and cocktail imaginable. For a few seconds when the music faded down to the mere landing squeal of a passenger jet, Hank pointed out the six kinds of Daiquiris—from raincoat-yellow mango to fire-engine red strawberry—the hot-pink Cosmos and the Sex-on-the-Beach, even more candy-pink than the Cosmopolitans if that were possible. When he mentioned the Screaming Orgasm, Isabel lowered his arm, “Enough.”
The sound built up and the spotlights behind the Wall started strobing randomly through the cylinders, making them jump like bouncing balls.
“Cost a fortune,” Hank mouthed. He pointed to the nearby bank of speakers, now pumping harder than a steroid-sucking body-builder. “More power than the Pentagon.” He laughed, but the strobes prevented him noticing that none of the others thought it was funny.
AFTER Isabel and Ed got to the sanctuary of their hotel—set back from Boston Common—the manager came up to their room to hand-deliver an envelope. It was marked “Isabel Diaz: Important but not Urgent.”
The term jolted her—until a few years ago she’d seen it typed on memos every day, until its devotee vanished, along with four million dollars.
“It arrived a few minutes ago,” the manager told her.
How did Karim Ahmed know she’d be staying here? “Who delivered it?” she asked.
“Here’s the thing,” said the manager, “it just appeared on the bell desk… while the night boy was helping a guest to the elevator.”
The letter weighed on her as she closed the door.
“What is it?” asked Ed, wiping his hands on a towel as he came out of the bathroom.
She waved it at him. “I think it’s from Karim.” She lifted it to the light and saw it contained only one sheet.
Ed took her wrist and brought it to his nose to smell the packet. He nodded and let go. Isabel sat at the desk and flicked on the lamp. She slit the envelope open. A single sheet… typed, but with Karim’s signature. A scrawl that looked genuine.
Dear Isabel,
Like so many, I too prayed you would become President, so I desperately share your disappointment.
My only consolation is that ultimately your loss had nothing to do with me. But even so, I apologise for the pain I have caused you.
I was thrilled, as you would expect, when Judge Thomas threw out the trumped up charges against me.
Why then, you will ask, did I choose to ‘vanish’ after that? Not because of any guilt, I assure you, but simply to protect my family from again becoming a public freak show.
I had become very depressed when I saw how your opponents were using my disappearance against you. My heart went out to you. It still does.
For now, I will stay in hiding, though I will still do what I can to make amends. (You can be confident that I have some ideas.)
Please tell my parents I truly love them, no matter what everyone thinks of me. I am with good people.
Kindest regards,
Isabel sat quietly. Where was Karim? Who was he with?
Ed ruffled her hair.
Isabel knew what had to be done.
28
BY THE TIME Davey had scampered off to his bed, Isabel was dog-tired. They’d had a rare weekend at home, and just farewelled George who’d flown back to California. The stress of the last few months, especially the last couple of weeks, was catching up.
Even so, out of habit, Isabel flicked on the TV:
“…at least thirty people died in a nightclub fire close to Harvard University. Over fifty people are being treated for severe burns and many others for smoke inhalation. The Cambridge Police and Fire Departments have cordoned off the area. At this stage, it is unknown how the blaze began, but there is mounting speculation it was faulty wiring. The…”
Isabel’s eyes were drawn to the building on the screen. The shot was from across railway tracks. It was… she was sure… Hank’s nightclub. Railcar.
Her hand flew to her lips.