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“I’d remind you the only tangible tie between us and this criminal is that he chose an event we sponsor to unleash his evil,” he said.
“Why do you think he didn’t bomb a train station?” Constance said.
“I have no cause to think anything about him, other than the fact he’s now a bad debt.”
“For which we have ample insurance,” Jacinta sighed.
Henry gave her a weary smile. “I believe we’ve done what you wanted, discussed the issue. What are you proposing?”
She outlined her formal proposal, which began with developing a broader program to identify at risk customers and provide a soft landing for them. She suggested getting out on front foot of the issue by briefing journalists on the connection with Kincaid and the subsequent change of policy and procedure, and ended with a proposal to double the sponsorship money provided to the marathon organisers to rebuild community faith in the event.
When she sat there was silence.
Constance broke it. “I like it. It’s smart business.”
“Mr Chairman, I’d ask that Jacinta leaves the room so we can discuss this and make our final decision,” said Malcolm. He didn’t look at Henry, he looked at her like she was dirt he wanted to scrape from the bottom of his thousand dollar shoes.
Henry frowned. Jacinta wasn’t a board member, but as an executive director she attended all the meetings. Not once had she been asked to leave, though it was a legitimate request. She looked to Henry. He had little choice but to comply or to fight Malcolm over it. He’d comply because her issue with Malcolm was a sideshow, not the real issue. This was it. She wasn’t going to get her weekend to lobby.
“As you like, Malcolm. Jacinta, thank you,” said Henry.
Dismissed she gathered her papers, her phone and tablet PC. “Thank you for your time.”
“This is personal for you, isn’t it?” said Constance.
Jacinta hugged her gear to her chest. “I think it’s personal for Kincaid’s wife and kids, for the families of the people he killed and hurt. I think Wentworth is in a position to do what we can not to be a trigger point for people to suffer from financial ruin. If that’s personal then, yes, it’s personal.”
“How does that impact you if we vote to continue business as usual?” she asked.
“We don’t need to—”
“I think we do, Henry,” Constance said.
Jacinta had barely slept all week and eaten only because Mel put meals in front of her. She’d known this would be a tough time before this issue even surfaced. She’d told Mace that, watched him take it onboard and worry it like a torn piece of clothing and been relieved when he showed he was willing to live with the rip if he wanted to see her again.
But this was beyond tough. This was the reason any thoughts of Mace came second and second was a long way back in the queue. This was the type of challenge she relished and it was deeply personal. She’d tipped her savings into how personal, but none of them needed to know about the victims’ fund; it might work against her by convincing them she was trying to extend her private motivation to corporate ends.
She wasn’t sure if that was because she’d seen the dust and destruction, felt the tremor, heard the savage zip of the body bags and watched them try to scrub blood from the pavement outside her door or not. But she knew this was a hard line. One she’d have trouble crossing if they voted against the changes she proposed.
“I will obviously respect the board’s wishes.” She’d accept them and keep pushing behind the scenes for change. It wasn’t ideal but it wasn’t defeat either.
On the way out the door she chanced a look in Malcolm’s direction. He was glaring right back and what she saw on his face put a flare of panic in her chest. She’d lost as surely as she breathed, as surely as she longed to lie in Mace’s arms to recapture the intimacy of their weekend, and as surely as she knew he’d be sacrificed to her ambition.
And then Malcolm spoke. “Henry.” He kept his eyes on her; he smiled, a hungry cannibal. He said, “I’d like Tom to start coming to these meetings,” and she knew she was about to be sacrificed too.
15: Deadline
Mace lost it when the priest appeared. Dillon had to get between them and the shouting woke Buster. Her eyes flickered, opened, then widened. She didn’t know where she was.
“I’m here, Buster, look at me, I’m here.” He took her hand, dry and cool while the rest of her was fevered, and she focused; her raspy br
eathing steadying. Dillon was backing the priest with his offer of last rites out. It was pneumonia, not a death sentence.
“You’re in the hospital, you’ll be fine, but if you try to talk, I’ll have Dillon sit on you.”
Dillon laughed. He went around the bed to her other side and took her hand. “Hey, sexy. You gave us a fright.” Buster’s eyes shifted, she smiled.
Mace adjusted her pillows then smoothed her hair back. She was propped up to help her breathing. She was also in a hospital gown, which she’d hate.
