Sons of Fortune

“Why don’t we invite Julia to join the board?” asked Nat, “and put her in charge of our property division. That would free me up to spend more time concentrating on the banking side.”

“I think you’ll find she considered that scenario at least six months ago,” said Tom.

“Did you by any chance offer her a directorship if she agreed to marry you?” asked Nat.

“Yes, I did originally, and she turned both down. But now I’ve convinced her to marry me, I’ll leave it to you to persuade her to join the board because I have a feeling she has other plans.”

37

Fletcher was on the floor of the chamber listening to a speech on subsidized housing when the proceedings were interrupted. He’d been checking through his notes, as he was due to speak next. A uniformed officer entered the chamber and passed a slip of paper to the presiding member, who read it, and then read it again, banged his gavel and rose from his place. “I apologize to my colleague for interrupting proceedings, but a gunman is holding a group of children hostage at Hartford Elementary. I am sure Senator Davenport will need to leave, and, given the circumstances, I believe it would be appropriate to adjourn for the day.”

Fletcher was on his feet immediately and had reached the door of the chamber even before the presiding member had closed the proceedings. He ran all the way to his office, trying to think on the move. The school was in the middle of his district, Lucy was a pupil and Annie was head of the PTA. He prayed that Lucy wasn’t among the hostages. The whole of the State House seemed to be on the move. Fletcher was relieved to find Sally standing by the door to his office, notebook in hand. “Cancel all of today’s appointments, call my wife and ask her to join me at the school, and please stay by the phone.”

Fletcher grabbed his car keys and joined the flood of people hurrying out of the building. As he drove out of the members’ parking lot, a police car shot in front of him. Fletcher pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator and swung into the police car’s slipstream as they headed toward the school. The line of cars became longer and longer, with parents making their way to pick up their offspring, some looking frantic after hearing the news on their car radios, others still blissfully unaware.

Fletcher kept his foot on the accelerator, staying only a few feet away from the rear bumper in front of him, as the police car shot down the wrong side of the road, lights blinking, sirens blaring. The policeman in the passenger seat used his loudspeaker to warn the pursuing vehicle to drop back, but Fletcher ignored the ultimatum, knowing they wouldn’t stop. Seven minutes later both came to a screeching halt at a police barrier outside the school; where a group of hysterical parents was trying to find out what was going on. The policeman in the passenger seat leaped out of his car and ran toward Fletcher as he slammed his door closed. The officer drew his pistol and shouted, “Put your hands on the roof.” The driver, who was only a yard behind his colleague, said, “Sorry, Senator, we didn’t realize it was you.”

Fletcher ran to the barrier. “Where will I find the chief?”

“He’s set up headquarters in the principal’s office. I’ll get someone to take you there, Senator.”

“No need,” said Fletcher, “I know my way.”

“Senator…” said the policeman, but it was too late.

Fletcher ran down the path toward the school, unaware that th

e building was surrounded by military guards, their rifles all aimed in one direction. It surprised him to see how quickly the public stood to one side the moment they saw him. A strange way to be reminded that he was their representative.

“Who the hell’s that?” asked the chief of police as a lone figure came running across the yard toward them.

“I think you’ll find it’s Senator Davenport,” said Alan Shepherd, the school’s principal, looking through the window.

“That’s all I need,” said Don Culver. A moment later Fletcher came charging into the room. The chief looked up from behind the desk, trying to hide his “that’s all I need” look, as the senator came to a halt in front of him.

“Good afternoon, Senator.”

“Good afternoon, chief,” Fletcher replied, slightly out of breath. Despite the wary look, he rather admired the paunchy, cigarsmoking chief of police, who wasn’t known for running his force by the book.

Fletcher gave a nod to Alan Shepherd, and then turned his attention back to the chief. “Can you bring me up to speed?” he asked as he caught his breath.

“We’ve got a lone gunman out there. It looks as if he strolled up the main path in broad daylight a few minutes before school was due to come out.” The chief turned to a makeshift ground-floor plan taped to the wall, and pointed to a little square with ART ROOM printed across it. “There appears to be no rhyme or reason why he chose Miss Hudson’s class, other than it was the first door he came to.”

“How many children in there?” Fletcher asked, turning his attention back to the principal.

“Thirty-one,” replied Alan Shepherd, “and Lucy isn’t one of them.”

Fletcher tried not to show his relief. “And the gunman, do we know anything about him?”

“Not a lot,” said the chief, “but we’re finding out more by the minute. His name is Billy Bates. We’re told his wife left him about a month ago, soon after he lost his job as the night watchman at Pearl’s. Seems he was caught drinking on duty once too often. He’s been thrown out of several bars during the past few weeks, and, according to our records, even ended up spending a night in one of our cells.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Davenport,” said the principal, rising from his place.

Fletcher turned to see his wife, “Lucy wasn’t in Miss Hudson’s class,” were his first words.

“I know,” said Annie, “she was with me. When I got your message, I dropped her off with Martha and came straight over.”

“Do you know Miss Hudson?” asked the chief.