AftershocksTwo: Social RealismPete likes to give me a hard time about the whole business of not dressing up. Of course, when I was a kid, it used to just be about having to get cleaned up for church on Sunday – and I would much rather have been running wild outdoors, where everything was endlessly wonderful and interesting. I remember my grandma saying I could go from zero to messy in sixty seconds. But she and my mom insisted on church.
Later on, after we’d lost Dad and my grandma . . . and even later, when it was just Mom and me . . . well, my mom wasn’t so big on church any more. And Sunday was always a good day for picking up the kind of odd jobs that brought in a little extra money. Several years slipped by without my even having to remember how to tie a necktie, and then it was time for high school graduation and we couldn’t really afford a new suit anyway, so Mom dug out one of my dad’s.
I suppose it was out of style, but I couldn’t have told the difference even if I had cared. I wore it, and I never told her how much I hated it. I never wanted to feel like that again.
I made out like I just felt strangled by the stiff collar and tie, but it was really the shock of looking in the mirror, seeing the familiar suit, and not seeing Dad. Even worse – the jacket, which should have been too big for me, was already a little too small, too tight across the back and shoulders. It was hard to breathe in it. I had never really felt like I was filling his place right, and the suit just made it worse.
Since then, well, most of the times I’ve had to wear a tie, it’s been for a funeral. That hasn’t helped much either.Even the blaze of publicity that had followed the Brandenburg arrests hadn’t reconciled MacGyver to the kind of fanfare that surrounded one of Ruth’s staged entrances. Their arrival at the California Palace of the Legion of Honour in Lincoln Park, where the ‘Phoenix Collection’ would remain on exhibit for a month before being returned to the lab for study and professional restoration, was greeted by a crush of journalists and curious onlookers, a gauntlet of glaring scrutiny that had to be run to reach the entrance.
Mac was more used to drifting on the edge of this kind of crowd, keeping an eye on the security perimeter for the benefit of whatever important figure was the focus of attention, watching for any sign that the attention was about to become dangerous. To find himself in the middle of the mob, surrounded by the flashing cameras and the ravenous eyes, felt like a bit like being in the middle of a feeding frenzy. The biggest difference was that he had some understanding for the way real sharks behaved; they were driven by simple hunger.
On top of that, the fancy dress brought back memories of the awkwardness of his high school prom. At least this time, he could tell himself that the horde of paparazzi were really looking at Ruth, or possibly at the Mustang, not at him. She looked poised and comfortable at the centre of all that attention. Mac tried not to find this annoying. He handed over the keys to the tuxedo-clad valet, envying him for a sharp moment –
he gets to drive all the cool cars – and he gets to drive them away from this crowd – and resisted the urge to run a finger around his collar as he dropped into the role of official escort.
Inside, the crowd at the reception was glossy and affluent; other than Mac, nearly all the men were in tuxes. The few who were not had all been members of the pack of journalists that had greeted them. They had now dispersed through the room, with a heavy concentration at the bar and the buffet tables.
MacGyver had braced himself for boredom – it
was a fancy-dress social event, after all – but within ten minutes he found he was enjoying the spectacle of Ruth and Pete working the room. They had met for only a moment when Ruth first arrived, and then split up, without any apparent plan or signal, and headed for opposite sides of the exhibition space. Pete worked his way smoothly from one cluster of overdressed attendees to another; Ruth, by contrast, never seemed to move more than three feet before a new group came up to her. Mac stayed in her shadow, nodded and smiled each time she introduced him, and entertained himself by counting the number of steps they took between conversational pauses. He won a string of internal bets when the number never exceeded five.
His attention sharpened briefly when he found himself being introduced to Erich Hartmann, the German consul general stationed in San Francisco, and his Israeli counterpart, Benjamin Weiss. Both men seemed determined to outdo each other in their admiration of Ruth and their insistence on being formally introduced to MacGyver. Mac shook everyone’s hand and tried not to think too hard about the number of times he’d bent or broken assorted laws in both countries during DXS missions.
As they moved off, a tall, white-haired man who’d been shadowing Hartmann lingered for a few moments. “Mrs. Collins? I’m delighted to finally meet you – I’m Dieter von Schüssel. Mr. Hartmann has assigned me as liaison with Phoenix for this project. I’m to offer you whatever assistance I can.” His accent was pronounced but his English was clear.
Ruth smiled warmly. “I’m delighted to meet you, Dieter. And do call me Ruth. Dear me, I thought I knew all of Erich’s cultural staff – are you sure we haven’t already met? Do you have a background in art?”
Dieter chuckled; pale blue eyes glinted behind thick glasses. “I was born in Vienna. By rights, I should take offense at that question – but no matter. I used to teach art history at the University of Leipzig.”
“Splendid. I’m sure we’ll do well together. That reminds me – I neglected to ask Erich about the order of speakers . . . ”
As Ruth and Dieter began to discuss logistics for the evening’s formalities, MacGyver seized his chance and melted away into the crowd. He spotted Pete over by the rostrum where the speechmaking would be staged, and carefully headed in the opposite direction, where the recovered artworks had been set up on exhibit.
Most of the eddying crowd had begun to move towards the seats, except for the foresighted diehards who were heading towards the bar instead. The gallery section was almost free from the crush of people, and Mac felt some of the tension ease out of him as the crowd thinned.
After a few minutes of wandering around the displays, MacGyver found himself in front of the painting that had started it all: the Rubens landscape that had been the first of the looted artworks to come to light. He stared at it in astonishment. The last time he’d seen it, a gaping hole had marred the ethereal perfection of the painted sky. He couldn’t see any sign now that the painting had ever been damaged.
“Pretty amazing, huh?” a voice beside him echoed his thoughts. Mac turned to smile at Laura Sandburg and her assistant from the Phoenix art lab, Veronica Faber.
“This
is the same painting, right?” Mac asked. “You haven’t switched it for a ringer?”
Laura laughed. “It’s the same one. Isn’t the repair work just beautiful? Ruth found us the most delightful little man from London –”
“Lambeth,” Veronica interjected. “Gordie’s from Lambeth. He’s amazing. He’s a third generation art restorer.”
“And he brought his daughter with him; she’s the fourth generation. We’ve learned a lot from him.”
“From both of them.”
“Family business?” Mac asked with a smile.
“Well, if you believe his hints, the whole clan used to be art forgers, and his is the first generation to be respectable. Or maybe it’s only Addie who’s actually respectable – that’s his daughter. Gordie gets pretty cagey about it when you try to pin him down.” Laura started as someone touched her shoulder from behind, then turned and smiled. “Oh, there you are, Sam! Take a look at your painting.”
The old man was beaming from ear to ear. “Isn’t it beautiful, my friends?” He clasped Laura’s hand and kissed it, then turned pink as Veronica gave him an impetuous hug and kissed his cheek. “Such beauty – almost as beautiful as the two of you. You should not hide yourselves away in the laboratory, any more than this painting should have been hidden away for so long.” He shook Mac’s hand warmly, still beaming. “MacGyver, my friend. You are looking well, God be thanked.”
Mac grinned and returned the man’s handclasp. “Good to see you, Sam. How’re you doing?”
“I am well. I am busy, very busy – Laura here has been keeping me on my toes! She is a hard taskmaster, that one.”
Laura laughed. “Hardly. Once in a while, when I can steal him for a few hours from the Oral History Project, he comes by the lab and fills my head with art history minutiae. He’s an invaluable resource.”
Veronica looked over at the rostrum. “And he’s supposed to be over there with the bigwigs. Sam, they’re waving at you. I think the speeches are about to start.”
Mac exchanged a long-suffering look with Sam. “Is it too late for us to sneak out of here?”
“Far too late,” Sam sighed. “Yes, yes, Laura, I accept my fate.” He squared his shoulders and marched over to where Ruth and Hartmann were waiting for him, Laura and Veronica in his wake.
MacGyver considered trying to slip away altogether; but he doubted he’d get away with it. Instead, he spotted an empty seat towards the back and headed for it. The man sitting to the left of the unoccupied chair noticed him while he was still some distance away, and shifted to make room for Mac to slip between the rows of chairs.
“Thanks.” Mac settled in with satisfaction; he was safely planted behind a tall, burly man whose broad silhouette would help screen him from Ruth and Pete’s searching eyes. No wonder the seat had been empty.
On the other side, a dark-haired woman in a florid blouse was staring at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be up there with the big shots?” she inquired. Her voice was a strong nasal bray, straight from the Bronx.
Mac gave her a superficial, tight smile. “I don’t see why.”
“You came in with Ruth Collins. I saw you. Who are you, really?”
He gave a noncommittal shrug. “The name’s MacGyver.”
“Aaaand . . . ?”
“And what?”
“What are you doing with someone like Ruth Collins?”
Mac shrugged again. “I work for the Phoenix Foundation.”
“That’s all?” The woman sounded disappointed, as if Mac had personally let her down.
“That’s all.”
She studied him with narrowed eyes for a moment, then held out a hand and flashed a smile that was toothier than his had been, but just as superficial. “Well,
I’m Donna Piper.”
Mac took her hand for as brief a clasp as he could manage without seeming rude. “Okay. Nice to meet you.”
The smile deflated somewhat. “That’s Donna Piper as in ‘Paying the Piper.’” Mac looked blank. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, don’t you read the papers? That’s my
column. I’m Donna the Piperazzi.”
“Um, I’m from LA.”
Donna Piper sniffed. “So everyone in LA’s illiterate?”
The man on Mac’s left chuckled. “Sometimes you’d almost think so.” Mac turned towards him, relieved at the interruption, and took the man’s proffered hand. “Zak Abramson.”
“MacGyver.”
The handshake was much firmer as well as more welcome. “
The MacGyver?”
Mac shrugged. “There’s gotta be more than one.”
“There’s only one who matters.” There was a faint accent in his voice, but Mac couldn’t place it. Zak looked close to his own age, but balding, with an aquiline nose above a neatly trimmed dark beard. “So you’re with Phoenix? Damned fine work you people are doing.”
“Thanks. Do you work for the museum here?”
“No, no, I’m with the Anti-Defamation League. You are involved with the artwork restoration project?”
“Only on the fringes. I mostly work with the security team.”
“Ah, yes.” Zak’s dark eyes gleamed. “Quite a problem there. Damned shame if looted artworks got stolen right after they’d been recovered. Nothing like being responsible for history, culture, wartime reparations and national pride all in one.”
On Mac’s right side, Donna Piper nudged him. “Never mind about all that.” She leaned towards him, her eyes bright. “C’mon, tell me. What’s Ruth Collins
really like?”
“What?”
“You know . . . get behind the public façade. Nobody’s
that perfect. Is she tough to work for? Why don’t we see her husband these days – maybe some trouble brewing there?” The woman’s sharp eyes looked MacGyver up and down with an unflattering intimation. “Come on, you can tell me. Are you . . . you know . . .
close to her?”
Mac saw the greedy spark in Donna Piper’s eyes and caught himself before he started to explode. That was exactly what she was hoping for – and the one thing she’d hate the most would be a dull response.
He smiled blandly and shrugged. “Well, y’know.” He let his accent thicken as he leaned towards her confidentially. “It’s kinda like this. She’s just, well, Ruth. That’s somethin’ ya can really count on, no matter what. No matter what happens, she’s Ruth, and she’ll always be Ruth. Ya know?”
Donna’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not helping, mister.”
MacGyver grinned. “Guess ya can’t help everyone.”
As the speeches began, Mac’s attention was already wandering, looking over the room and the people in it. At formal events, there was always an initial impression of bland uniformity, especially amongst the men in their nearly identical black and white; it made it all the more intriguing to look at each one carefully, spotting the minute differences in appearance and mannerism that revealed the individuals underneath.
Zak had the kind of stiff edginess that told MacGyver he was no more accustomed to formal wear than Mac was, and didn’t like it any better. Up on the low platform where the speakers’ rostrum stood, Pete was introducing the German consul general, who unexpectedly showed the same signs of discomfort.
Aha. A bureaucrat, not a diplomat. Behind him, Dieter von Schüssel looked far more at ease; and Ben Weiss seemed as comfortable and natural in his penguin suit as Pete did.
Mac couldn’t keep from smirking when Dieter was presented to Pete as the German ‘cultural attaché’ assigned to support the project.
He’s gotta be the first cultural attaché either of us ever met who’s actually got something to do with culture. His smile faded when he suddenly noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that Zak Abrams was wearing a nearly identical smirk, as if he was in on the same joke.
Huh.The tremor hit while Pete was still speaking; Mac felt the ripple even before he spotted the swaying of the drapes behind the speaker’s platform. It wasn’t a bad quake, especially by California standards; Pete caught at the edge of the rostrum for a moment until the first tremor had passed, and then made a smooth joke about earthshaking events and pressed on with his speech as soon as he could recover the attention of the crowd.
When the quake hit, Donna Piper let out a squeak and grabbed Mac’s arm. “Sh*t, I am
never going to get used to it. I always think, you know – it’s going to be The Big One. Every time.” She released his arm reluctantly.
Zak Abrams caught his eye. “You seem calm, my friend. You have lived a long time here in California?” Mac nodded. “I, too, find it difficult to take it in stride – I was in Naples in 1980. I have never felt comfortable about earthquakes since then.”
MacGyver nodded distractedly. His attention had been caught by the group at the side of the speakers’ platform. Ruth had remained unflustered throughout – no surprise there; she
did live in San Francisco itself – but Laura Sandburg had gone white as a sheet. Ruth was holding her arm and gesturing for a chair to be brought up.
HUh. I’d’a thought Laura woulda got used to quakes by now.Mac’s attention wandered again as the German and Israeli consuls made nearly identical declarations of their support for the project; Ruth stepped up to the rostrum and made a much briefer speech, announcing the Phoenix Foundation’s plans to handle the restoration of the recovered artworks. She turned to leave the platform, and Mac gave a mental sigh of relief and wondered how long the post-speech schmoozing would take before they’d be free to leave. Then the Israeli consul general took the podium again. Mac snapped back into focus.
“Wait, wait! We are not done yet, Mrs. Collins. Ruth, you get your
tuchas back up here.” Weiss was wearing in a very un-diplomatic smirk. “My friends, I know this is hard to believe, but this woman has never been formally recognised by any government for her courage and selfless heroism during the war that claimed so many lives . . . ”
MacGyver saw Pete beaming, and realised he was grinning at least as hard at the sight of Ruth’s evident embarrassment.
“ . . .in addition to her work in coordinating the Resistance to the forces occupying central and southern France, between the years 1940 and 1945 she was instrumental in effecting the escape of 437 Jews from Nazi or Fascist-controlled territory – including, I should mention, my own great-grandmother. Hah! You didn’t know that, did you, Ruth?”
Mac saw the look on Ruth’s face and stopped wondering if she’d had any idea that this was going to happen. She hadn’t.
Beside him, Donna Piper was frowning. She had taken desultory notes as the speeches proceeded, but now she leaned over towards MacGyver. “I don’t understand. What are they talking about?”
Mac tried not to sound impatient. “World War II. Ruth was in France when war broke out. She joined the French Resistance.”
“Huh? I thought the French surrendered.”
“The Vichy
government surrendered. The French went on fighting, underground. Thousands were killed.” Mac could see that Donna was already tuning him out. He ground his teeth. “They’re part of why we
won.”
The columnist shrugged. “Yeah, yeah, right. Fine. But I can’t fill my column with that kind of crap. Who really cares about any of that old stuff?”
On Mac’s other side, Zak broke in. “Only those of us who must live with the consequences – or who do not wish to repeat the more painful lessons of history.”
Up on the platform, the medal presentation was concluding. They’d roped Sam Bolinski in on the show; Weiss handed him the medal in its velvet box, and Sam looped the striped ribbon around Ruth’s neck and kissed her on both cheeks, which were flushing scarlet. Mac grinned again, even more broadly; he’d never seen Ruth completely at a loss before, and doubted he ever would again.
Ruth took the rostrum again, and the gleam in her eye made Mac pay attention. “I suppose I’m expected to make some kind of speech, but to hell with that. There’s something far more important for us to recognise this evening – not my old misdeeds. Pete, would you please do the honours?”
MacGyver frowned in puzzlement as Pete stepped back up to the rostrum.
“As most of you already know, the Brandenburg affair began when the Phoenix Foundation inadvertently purchased a painting that proved to have been stolen – a long-lost item of Nazi wartime loot. Carlysle House, the auctioneers, has cooperated fully with us in coming to an agreement to restore the painting to its rightful owner, Mr. Samuel Bolinski.”
Sam stepped forward as the crowd applauded politely. Pete touched the old man’s arm and said, “Sam, you know the painting’s yours. Don’t do anything you don’t really want to do, okay?”
Sam patted Pete on the arm and smiled. He stepped to the podium.
“My friends. The Phoenix Foundation has given me back my painting. For this I am grateful. More than this: they have listened to my story, and listened with attention. They have given me more than a mere picture. They have given me respect. They have honoured my family – my dead – and grieved with me for my loss. In a way, they have sat
shiva with me over the ghosts of the past.”
Sam gestured towards the German consul general. “This man, who was only a baby when the Third Reich murdered my family and stole our possessions, has apologised to
me, a Polish Jew, on behalf of his country and his country’s past. Such generosity, such grace, is a
mitzvah, a blessing. It cries out for generosity in turn.”
Sam half-turned and indicated another man, who had remained throughout at the back of the group on the platform. “I have met many fine people in the last few months; this is one of them, Mr. Powell. He is the director of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. Mr. Powell, I have offered to you this painting, the one item I have recovered from my family’s patrimony. I ask you to take it for your collection, so that everyone can enjoy its beauty and remember my family in their hearts.”
MacGyver scowled as the museum director smoothly accepted the donation. The presentation was, at last, the final act in the formalities; when the speeches were finally over, Mac made a beeline for Sam. He tugged at the old man’s sleeve to draw him away.
“All right, Sam – how hard did Ruth lean on you to give away your painting?” Mac had to keep a tight hold on himself; he felt that he’d explode if he didn’t take care.
The old man smiled and patted his shoulder. “No, no, my friend. You do not understand. Why are you so angry?”
Mac tried to answer, and found himself spluttering. He gestured instead, reaching into empty air for the words that evaded him.
Sam seemed to understand what Mac couldn’t express. “My friend, it is more than I can believe, how much my family’s picture is worth now. Nearly half a million American dollars! Who would have thought it? They let me take it home, and I could not sleep for worrying about it. I cannot keep it safe, in my home! I am a simple man. I live simply. I cannot afford heavy vaults and great locks. And I do not wish to live like that.
“No. This is better. Everyone will be able to enjoy the picture, it will be safe, and me, I can go look at it any time I wish. You did hear Mr. Powell say that I am now an honoured lifetime member of his museum? I can go there any day, every day, and look at all the paintings. And even after I am gone, my family will be remembered.”
Pete and Laura caught up with them, Ruth lagging somewhat behind. Laura glowered at Mac. “You were
supposed to be up there with the rest of us.”
Mac cocked an eyebrow. “And spoil Ruth’s show?”
Ruth had removed the medal from around her neck and was fingering it pensively as she replaced it in its velvet case. “Pete, MacGyver, if I
ever have reason to believe that you knew about that in advance . . . ”
Mac looked at her innocently and turned to Pete. “So Sam got his painting back – even though he didn’t keep it. Did we get our money back? Phoenix, I mean?”
“Carlysle House annulled the sale,” Pete replied.
Ruth smiled sardonically. “After all, their business would suffer considerably if they were to become notorious as unreliable dealers in artworks of unverifiable or questionable provenance.”
“Ruth, you wouldn’t – ” Laura began.
“Don’t underestimate her,” Mac broke in. “So they didn’t like being used as fences, huh?”
“Carlysle in particular was extremely upset. He’s going after them with all guns blazing to recover their lost commission on the cancelled sale – I’ve lent him a lawyer, in fact. It was part of the arrangement we made.” Ruth gestured. “He’s over there by the Titian, and I do hope he isn’t drooling directly onto it.”
“I bet Gordie could remove drool if he had to,” Laura murmured.
“I think I’m gonna have to meet this guy,” said MacGyver.
“You should. You’d get along great. Just don’t ask him to appraise your velvet Elvis, okay? If you do, I’m going to have to pretend I don’t know you.”
Mac looked at her darkly. “I do
not have a velvet Elvis. But – ” his face lit up and his dark eyes sparkled – “I
do have this really cool picture of dogs playing poker.”
Ruth took Mac’s arm firmly. “Are you trying to start a riot? I think someone needs to keep you out of trouble. And you dodged out on me earlier.”
Mas resigned himself to another round of marking time, but Ruth surprised him; instead of waiting for the reception attendees to approach her and pay court, she singled out several individuals, one at a time, and swooped down on them. Carlysle, the owner of the auction house, proved to be an elderly, gruff Scot, disinclined to talk when there were paintings to be studied and coveted.
Ruth smoothly shifted to the next painting in the row, and struck up a conversation with a well-dressed, well-groomed man of about MacGyver’s age.
“Douglas – it’s so good to see you again! I’d like you to meet Mr. MacGyver – he’s with the Phoenix Foundation. Yes, he’s the one who actually recovered the collection. MacGyver, this is Douglas Carmichael.”
Mac tried to remember if there was any reason he might have heard of the man. He drew a blank.
Ruth pressed on. All through the evening, Mac hadn’t needed to say much. Left to himself, he’d have left gaps in the flow of small talk and superficial conversation wide enough to drive a house through; Ruth easily covered the lapses.
“How’s your daughter doing? She’ll be graduating from high school this year, won’t she?”
Carmichael beamed. “Yes, that’s right. In fact, she graduated early. We’re very proud of Stephanie.”
“Any plans for college?”
“We’re still working on it . . . she’s a bit unsettled, you know.” Carmichael gave a supercilious laugh. “Kids that age never know what they want to do.”
I did, Mac thought.
I wanted to travel the world and help people, see everything there was to see and learn everything there was to know.Ruth had cocked her head. “That’s Stephanie over by the Monet, isn’t it? I thought I remembered she was interested in art.”
“Completely nuts about it. It’s not the most promising field, of course . . . we’re hoping she’ll go in for architecture instead. It’s a much more solid profession. But she gets excited about the glamour of the ‘creative life’.” Carmichael’s voice grew sardonic.
“Hmmm . . . ” Ruth studied the young girl across the room. “Yes, that can be a real problem . . . it’s quite difficult for anyone that age to get any real notion of just how humdrum the working life in any field can be.” She glanced keenly at Carmichael. “Now, if she had the chance for a spot of hands-on experience . . . an internship, perhaps, in an art restoration lab . . . ”
Carmichael’s eyes narrowed. “Ruth . . . you know I can see right through you . . . ”
“Of course you can. You’ve been more than generous in the past, and I think you’ll agree that we’ve put your donations to the very best use. You’ve had the satisfaction, every year, of seeing the good you’ve done. I’m simply thinking that this year, it’s high time a little of that good went somewhere a little closer to your heart. If we can expand the hiring budget to cover a few more positions – art experts and restorers – there will be the added capacity for interns as well . . . ” Ruth’s voice trailed off as her smile broadened. “Just think about it, Doug. I’ll give you a call next week and we can discuss it a bit more then.” She moved off into the crowd, MacGyver in tow.
Mac looked at her sideways. “Real slick, Ruth.”
Ruth snorted. “Yes, you’ve seen me at my worst now, I dare say. But I refuse to apologise. How do you think Phoenix manages to keep the lights on? Every Douglas Carmichael I can rope in means another study funded, or a new project we can move from pipe dream to reality. And his daughter might be an artist yet. Or a damned fine architect.”
“Or a spoiled yuppie brat?”
Ruth shrugged. “Who knows? In the end, it will be up to her, after all – with a bit of help. Which beats it being up to her father. He’s a good man, but a dreadful stick. And his wife’s not much better. I quite feel for poor Stephanie.”
“Just how many people
do you know?”
“Me? Good Lord, thousands if you tally them all. As best as I can, that is, which isn’t nearly as well as I’d like. I only wish I
could remember everyone. Of course, in the Résistance, we couldn’t commit any records to paper – not when a single name in a note could mean torture and death.”
“I guess that kind of pressure has its effect.”
“Let’s say I had a great deal of motivation to build up my mental muscles very quickly indeed. But you’re giving me too much credit. I don’t remember faces and names, MacGyver.”
“Coulda fooled me.”
Ruth’s smile belied her age. “I remember
people. You have an extraordinary memory yourself – in fact, you remember names and faces better than I do; most people are wretched at that. Plus all that science, physics, mechanics, the interactions of chemicals . . . I deal in the peculiar chemistry of human personality.”
Mac gave her a sideways look. “So back when you got Pete and me to join Phoenix . . . ”
“I have never been inclined to actual manipulation, MacGyver. For one thing, the people most worth having around are likely to resent it . . . and resentment carries a dreadfully long-term toxic price. I have never manipulated you
or Pete. I’ve been at some pains not to do so.”
“Okay, if it isn’t manipulation, what is it?”
She shrugged. “I try to match people to circumstances. If I can manage a good match, the person will follow, simply because it
is a good match. If they don’t, well, I need to find either a better match or a better prospect. That’s where knowing so many people really pays off.”
Ruth was unusually silent as they waited, after the reception had finally wound its way to an end, for the Mustang to be brought up. She was fingering the black velvet case that held the medal. As MacGyver took his place behind the wheel, she finally spoke, her voice uncharacteristically brittle.
“Four hundred and thirty-seven? How the
hell did they come up with
that number?”
Mac glanced at her as he put the car in gear and pulled out of the parking lot, down the curving lane that led out of Lincoln Park and merged into El Camino del Mar. “How many was it?”
“I have no idea.” Ruth let her hands fall into her lap and leaned her head back against the seat. “I wasn’t exactly counting at the time. And I haven’t led the quietest of lives since then – in marked contrast to most of my fellows, I should say. It astonishes me, how most of us who came home from the war simply settled down into obscure normalcy.”
Mac grinned into the darkness, trying to visualise Ruth ‘settling down’.
“I suppose it might have been that many, if you count every single refugee who passed through our field of operations.” She sighed. “But it wasn’t even a tithe of what we missed. For years I brooded on all the people we
didn’t save. It wasn’t until I met Pete and started working with him that I was able to let go of that. He gave me the worst tongue-lashing I’ve ever had when he found out how hard I’d been on myself.” She looked over at Mac. “I shouldn’t smirk like that if I were you.”
“Hey, after all the years I’ve been workin’ with Pete – yikes, hang on . . . ” Mac hit the brakes as a cat emerged from the shadowed undergrowth of the park and dashed across the narrow road in front of them.
The brake pedal under his foot felt suddenly mushy, and then went all the way to the floor with no resistance.
MacGyver let out a strangled sound. “
Hang on!” He felt cold sweat on his forehead as he swerved to avoid the cat, which for a wonder did not dodge back into the path of the accelerating car. He straightened out again and met the next curve not quite too late to follow it cleanly, feeling the car rapidly picking up speed as they headed down the badly-lit, winding road. Ahead of them, farther down the hill, lay the all-too-well-named neighbourhood of Seacliff: another district of mansions with mega-million-dollar views. The views were that good because the houses were perched on a high bluff that dropped over a hundred feet down to the Pacific, to meet icy water and unforgiving rocks.
If it hadn’t been for that cat, we coulda been out in traffic and going twice the speed before I felt the brakes fail . . . Mac’s awareness was caught up in his sense of the car – the mass that fed the increasing speed and inertia, the action of the suspension, the grip of the wheels on the road and the response of the steering. His eyes strained ahead to see as much of each curve as soon as possible, so he could feel with his entire body how the car had to be steered to follow the twists and turns. Each curve had its sweet spot, where – if he could hit it just right – the car would follow the arc of an imaginary perfect circle, and the centrifugal force pulled the vehicle tighter to the road instead of flinging it away towards disaster.
And then the desperately short transition between curves, where the road switched to bend the other way, and he had to find and follow the right line. At the first, too-brief straightaway, he downshifted, revving the engine to mesh the gears and hearing the transmission howl its protest. It helped, but it wasn’t going to be enough. Mac’s body swayed with the car, his face beading with sweat even as his hands kept their light touch on the wheel. Gripping too tightly would slow down the speed of his response.
At the same time, his memory was frantically scrambling, trying to assemble an image of what the next stretch of the road looked like. El Camino del Mar continued in its swaying curves down the hill after it left Lincoln Park and entered Seacliff, drawing ever closer to the edge of the bluff where it met Seacliff Avenue itself. Most of the mansions faced the street with walls or gates, and the narrow street was edged with trees and dotted with parked cars . . . a hundred obstacles and no clean route to safety.
“Ruth.”
“Yes?”
“Take the parking brake. Don’t yank back on it – hold down the button and pulse the brake. Just try to slow us down a bit.”
Or keep us from speeding up as much . . .It helped, but it wasn’t enough either, and they were running out of time. Ahead of them, the intersection where El Camino del Mar met Seacliff Avenue was rushing towards them – a sharp bend to the right that led to an even steeper slope downwards, versus a hairpin turn to the left into a cul-de-sac at the edge of the bluff. MacGyver caught a glimpse of taillights up the cul-de-sac – some wealthy resident was making a safer, more leisurely return from a night out.
Worth trying . . . nothin’ else to try anyway . . .Mac felt instinctively for the exact right moment to hit the gas as they approached the turn. He heard Ruth squeak as the car popped forward; but the added boost put him in complete control of the vehicle for that precious second. He adjusted the steering wheel a fraction, grabbed the emergency brake and yanked it back hard.
The rear wheels of the Mustang locked and the car skidded to the left and spun like a top, the screeching tires echoingly loudly in the quiet street. As the car pivoted, Mac released the brake at just the right moment and stomped on the gas again as he steered the car through its skid. The Mustang had spun almost 180 degrees when it straightened out, clearing the hairpin turn where El Camino met Seacliff, and shot forward into the cul-de-sac.
To their right, the cliff fell away towards the wide sweep of the Pacific, too far down, just the other side of a too-narrow parking area and a too-flimsy fence. Ahead of them, Seacliff dead-ended only a few hundred yards away – but the lights of the other car were retreating into a gated enclosure at the end of the cul-de-sac, where the drive ran
uphill back up the steepening side of the bluff. Mac lined himself up with the long drive, blessedly almost straight, seized the parking brake and began to pulse it again, shedding as much speed as quickly as he could without locking the rear wheels again.
The Mustang slowed as they headed uphill in the wake of the other car, passing into the mansion’s well-groomed grounds while the gate remained wide open. There was still some momentum when the length of the drive began to run out; the car ahead of them turned away into its garage, and Mac glanced around once, set his teeth, and pulled back hard on the parking brake.
The car skidded into another spin and passed close by a tree next to the drive; a low-hanging branch struck the windshield and a spiderweb of cracks blossomed out from the impact. Mac had just enough control left on the wheel to dodge the trunk as they careened past. They came to rest in a mass of low bushes on top of a flowerbed at the side of the drive.
After a breathless eternity, Ruth spoke, her voice surprisingly steady. “Dear God. I do believe we’re actually intact.”
“More or less . . . I think it’s mostly the paintwork . . . ”
“To hell with the damned car. I’m talking about
us.” Ruth drew a shaky breath. “MacGyver, if you ever decide to take up racing again, be sure to let me know so I can bet on you.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” Mac drew a long, deep breath of the salt-tanged air off the ocean. The adrenaline still had him in its grip, and he felt almost dizzy with the awareness of still being alive and unhurt. “Gregory was right, you know,” he murmured after a long moment. “It’s
real good on corners.”
Doors slammed shut on the car that had preceded them up the mansion’s long drive, and they saw two people approaching them – the driver, a short, heavy man in evening dress, was advancing far more slowly than his passenger, a woman in a long fur coat who weaved unsteadily on high heels. She stopped a few feet away from the Mustang and peered in at them through the starred windshield.
“Good God. Ruth? Is that you?” Her voice was high-pitched and slurred, obviously intoxicated. “Does Henry know you’re out joy-riding?” The woman giggled. “What the hell are you doing here anyway, parking in my garden?”
“Oh, hell,” Ruth muttered. “That woman is
such a dreadful gossip.” She rolled down the window and leaned out. “Sorry about the mess, Connie. Would you be so kind as to let us use your phone?”
As Connie turned to speak to her husband, Ruth glanced over at MacGyver. “Pete is not going to be happy when he hears about this. Do you think it was sabotage?”
Mac rubbed his eyes, his jaw set in a grim line. “I’ll have to look to be sure, but it’s gotta be. It can’t have been anything else.”
“Oh, hell,” Ruth said again. “You know what that means.”
Mac nodded. “Which one of us was the target?”
You've got everyone's 'voice' down-pat! 
And since I read the first chapter as well I think I can answer the question who the target was... 
Everyone will learn eventually, but I'm curious as to what you think right now!
