Lewis Cole: Primary Storm Part 23

"Can you tell me what happened in Illinois?"

"No, I'm afraid I can't," I said.

"And this is good information?"

"Solid," I said.

"Real solid? I mean to put this out in the Monday paper ... and it's going to cause a h.e.l.l of a c.r.a.pstorrn with the Pomeroy campaign and the other news media, my little paper breaking a story like this."

"Solid as a rock."

Paula finished typing and then gently scratched one of her delightfully protruding ears. "You know, this is the kind of story that's going to need another source before going to press. No offense to you and your mysterious informant."

"No offense taken Who?"

She grinned. "My dear Mr. Spencer, that's who."

"The Tyler town counsel? Your better half?"

"The same," she said. "He has connections to the Nash Pomeroy campaign. Once I get out of this wake, I'll give him a call. Man, that's going to tick him off something awful."

"Think he'll talk?"

The smile got wider. "If he wants to continue to be lucky with me, he'd better talk, and better give it all up."

"If he's smart, he'll do just that."

Senator Pomeroy then wrapped things up by saying, " ... and I look forward to your support next Tuesday. Thank you, thank you so very much!"

Some steady applause that dribbled out after a number of seconds, and she put her mouth up to my ear and said, "Thanks, Lewis. A scoop like this ... well, it'll make all this weekend and night work this past month worth it."

"Glad to hear it," I said, standing up.

She stood up as well, gathered her laptop, and looked at Senator Pomeroy, gamely shaking the hands of those few voters who came up to him.

Paula shook her head and said, "You know, there are times, like I told you back at lunch, when I think this primary season is so special. And then I look at what we have here. The endless cattle show. The endless droning recitation of canned speeches. Candidates who hate what they're doing, and hate being here. Makes you wonder how this fair little country of ours stumbles along. Lord knows candidates like Lincoln or FDR or JFK or even Ike couldn't survive what goes on now, with the cable networks and all the background investigations. So what do we end up with? Bland candidates with bland backgrounds who try to be everything to everybody ... that's what we get."

"You know what Churchill said," I told her.

"What? About fighting on the landing fields and beaches?"

"No," I said. "Something about democracy being the worse political system ever devised, except for the rest."

"Sounds right," she said. "I just hope the people, G.o.d bless 'em, never decide to put that statement to the test and try something else. Thanks again for the tip, Lewis. Gotta get going."

"Me, too," I said, I went out of the cafeteria and spared a quick glance back.

Senator Nash Pomeroy was navigating a crowd of reporters and news photographers, the harsh light from the television cameras making his face look puffy and red. Paula was right. It was a h.e.l.l of a process.

But so far, the only one we've got.

Chapter Sixteen.

At home I built a fire and checked my messages. Another baker's dozen, of which I deleted twelve. It got to the point where I knew to delete the message when I heard nothing for the first few seconds; it usually took that long for the automated message to begin its spiel, allowing me to avoid yet another heartfelt automatic plea to either vote for somebody or vote against somebody. There was also one live message, from a very real person --- Annie --- which I returned, and I was pleased that it went right through.

"Oh, Lewis, it's you," she said, and I sensed the exhaustion in her voice.

"Sounds like you're running on caffeine and energy," I said.

"Lots of caffeine, not much energy. Oh, we're getting close, my dear, so very close."

"What's going on?"

"Latest round of polling shows the d.a.m.n race is still fluid," she said. "Hale still holds on to a lead, but that hold is d.a.m.n slippery. All it'd take is one bit of bad news, one bit of controversy, and it could sink us ... but if we hang on till Tuesday morning, then we can make it. And then it's on to South Carolina."

"South Carolina ... with or without Annie Wynn?"

She laughed. "South Carolina ... here's your answer about that. All right if I move in with you Wednesday morning? Take a vacation?"

'Where do you want to go?"

"Mmm," she murmured. "No G.o.dd.a.m.n where, that's where. I want you to unplug the phone and your computer, and I want a fire in the fireplace all day and night, and I want all of my meals served on a tray on my lap. And the only thing I want to see on television are old movies. Cary Grant. Gregory Peck. Audrey Hepburn. Katharine Hepburn. Spencer Tracy. Think you can arrange that for me?"

"Consider it done."

Another sigh. "But I have something for you, if you'd like."

"What's that?"

"Monday night," she said. "You free?"

"Of course."

"Good. We're having an old-fashioned wingding of a political rally for Senator Hale, at the Center of New Hampshire. Free food and drinks ... music ... lights, camera, and action. One last big-a.s.s rally before voting begins the next day. I'd love to have you there, right with me, holding hands, as the campaign wraps up in New Hampshire. Tell me you'll say yes."

I looked at the dancing flames, thinking, just a couple more days, that's all, just a couple more days. Then this d.a.m.n primary and its problems be over.

"Yes," I said. "Of course, yes."

"Thank you, dear," she said, and I made out voices in the background, and she said, "The campaign calls. See you Monday night, 5:00 P.M. The Center of New Hampshire. Come to Room 110, all right?"

"Room 110, 5:00 P.M., Monday night. It's a date."

She chuckled. "It seems like ages since I've heard you say that. A date it is. Bye, now."

"Bye."

After I hung up, I looked at the flames again for a while, before getting up and making a simple dinner of corn beef hash, fried up in a big black cast iron skillet. Feeling particularly bachelorish, I ate from the pan to save some cleaning up. Annie would have been horrified to see me and that made me smile, to think of her face. After I ate I made a speed clean of the kitchen and decided it was time to go to bed. Tomorrow was going to be a long day, and I know it was arrogant of me to say so, but I had no doubt what I was going to do on Sunday would have an impact on who the next president of the United States would be.

Despite of all that, I slept fairly well.

Sunday morning I went over to the Lafayette House for my daily dose of newspapers, and Stephanie wasn't working that day, so I got out with my heavy load of reading without any serious conversation. I was also pleasantly surprised at seeing a familiar face while leaving the lobby; Chuck Bittner, campaign operative for General Grayson, who looked at me and pretended he didn't know who I was. The pleasant surprise, of course, was not in seeing him; it was in his ignoring me. I guess our little visit was already working. I returned the favor and walked back home.

It was a brisk morning, a faint breeze coming off the ocean, the salt smell good to notice. Out on the horizon were the lumps of rock and soil marking the Isles of Shoals; and I made out a freighter, heading north to the state's only major port, in Porter. There was a nice winter contrast to the snow and ice on the ground, the sharp darkness of the boulders, and heavy blue of the water that reminded me again of how nice it was to live here, even in the dark times of winter. Even when the quadrennial circus was in town, bringing with it all sorts of problems and headaches.

Like a dead man in my yard. And a former college lover, probably destined to become the next first lady, and my poor Annie, working so hard, working so diligently, for something she believed in. I shifted the papers from one arm to the other, glanced at all the big headlines predicting what might happen here come this Tuesday.

At home I made a big breakfast of scrambled eggs, sausage, toast, tea, and orange juice, and plowed through most of The New York Times before I decided it was time to get on with the business of the day. I washed the dishes, went upstairs and showered and checked my skin, as always, and got dressed. Usually getting dressed means finding whatever's clean in my closet and bureau, but this time, I decided to do it right. I put on a clean dress shirt, white with light blue pinstripes, a new pair of heavy khaki slacks, and a red necktie. Sensible winter footwear, of course, and a dark blue cardigan. I looked at myself in the mirror before heading back downstairs and said, "Dahlink, you look marvelous."

Downstairs I grabbed my coat and a duped copy of the Lafayette House surveillance tape, and in addition to my cell phone, I thought about bringing something else. I hesitated, and then shrugged and went back upstairs. Better to be safe, and I thought Felix would approve, though I'm not sure about Diane. From my bedroom I grabbed my nine-millimeter Beretta and shoulder holster, and slid it on underneath my cardigan. The heavy weight on my shoulder felt almost comforting. I then went downstairs and outside to the crisp January morning. Freshly showered, fed, dressed, and armed, I felt like I was ready to take on the day and win.

My Ford Explorer started right up and in a matter of moments, I was heading north. My plan was a simple one. I was to see Audrey Whittaker and see her I would, for there was no doubt --- with the primary just two days away --- that she should be either home or somewhere reachable. Then, I would show her the tape, and tell her my demands: layoff. Just layoff whatever the h.e.l.l she was doing. For I was doing this for two women in my life, one past, one present, each of whom was hoping for the very same thing. For Barbara, and for Annie, I would ensure that things would be quiet, at least, for this upcoming primary, so their man would have a clear shot at the White House.

After Tuesday ... well, I'm not sure but I thought I would probably be an accessory to covering up a crime. I had no doubt about the circ.u.mstances of Spenser Harris's death, or whoever he was. I just wasn't too upset about it, since he had been part of something that was going to put my b.u.t.t in jail, and if his body was to be dumped on the side of a road in rural Ma.s.sachusetts sometime this spring, well, I'd let the professionals sort it out.

In the meantime, it was a glorious Sunday and the road was clear on my drive to Wallis and the home of Audrey Whittaker, and I was going to take care of everything. And tomorrow night I'd be at that party with Annie, and wish good luck to Mrs. Barbara Hale and her husband, and after Tuesday, everything would be back to where it should be.

In any event, that was my plan.

And as the old joke goes, if you want to make G.o.d laugh, make plans.

I looked quickly to the right before I turned into Audrey Whittaker's house, to see that little stretch of beach that had caused such heartache to a Ma.s.sachusetts family that didn't like being bossed around by an old New Hampshire lady. I wasn't too worried about what she might do to me ---- even if she did shoot Spenser Harris --- for I was fairly independent and relied on almost no one else for my health and livelihood. And I was also sure that we would reach some sort of understanding, for it was in her interests, as well, to keep up her appearance as the grand dame of New Hampshire politics. And if it was going to take a bit of time to reach an agreement, the Beretta within easy reach would ensure that I wouldn't end up like Spenser Harris.

There was no checkpoint at the driveway entrance so I sped right up, and noted a couple of SUVs in addition to the Jaguar with the WHTKR vanity plate. I parked my Explorer and got out, and shook my head again at the PIG sc.r.a.ped into the paint. I would really have to get that fixed, one of these days.

Up at the ma.s.sive oak door, I pressed the doorbell but didn't hear a thing. Maybe it's a sign of being rich and powerful, that you can't hear your doorbells from outside, so I pressed it again.

This time, the door opened up.

I waited, duped tape in my hand.

"Yes?" came the woman's voice, and I hesitated, disappointed, for it wasn't the right woman.

Instead of Audrey Whittaker, there was a young, strong looking woman, wearing black slacks and a black turtleneck shirt, and her blond hair was cut quite short, and seemed to be a dye job.

"I'm looking for Audrey Whittaker," I said.

"Is she expecting you?" she replied, and her voice had a slight Hispanic accent. I thought I had seen her before, perhaps the last time I had been here.

"No, but it's urgent that I see her. My name is Lewis Cole." She smiled and shook her head. Now I was sure. She had been with that catering crew that night, no doubt one of Mrs. Whittaker's employees. "She's not here, but if you come in, I'm sure I can get somebody to help you."

"Thanks," I said, walking in and letting the door slam shut behind me.

I was in the large reception area, and it looked so different from the last time I was here, with the people milling about, the HALE FOR PRESIDENT signs, the check-in table and the coat area. Now, the place looked like it really did, wide and open and almost sterile. My house was old and small and was cold in the winter and too warm in the summer, and beach sand sometimes got into the sheets and the sugar container, but at least it was a home. This was an estate, and I decided I didn't like it.

Voices, out in the large hallway that led into the house, and I turned at the sound of a male voice, a male Southern voice, as the man said, "I was just leaving, but maybe I can help you. Mr. Cole, you said you wanted to see Mrs. Whittaker?"

I turned and saw a man with a red beard there, a man I had seen a couple of times before, here and at the Tyler Conference Center, what was his name, it was ... Harmon. Harmon Jewett, that was it. Longtime loyal Jackson Hale supporter, a man who wanted to see Hale elected president no matter what, a man who, as Annie said, had a temper that could curl paint off the side of the house ...

And a man who was walking toward me, carrying his coat and gloves in his hands.

A belted white trench coat. And black gloves.

Like the driver and shooter in the videotape I was carrying in my hand.

I looked at his clothing and looked at him, and said, "No, I'm all set. I'll come back later."

Harmon shrugged. "Suit yourself."

I turned and before me was the door leading out of this large and empty and cold house, and as I went to the door, to safety, something powerful struck me at the back and brought me down.

I think I screamed. Or yelled. Not sure. But one thing was for sure: I bit my tongue and struck my head when I fell. My body was out of control, was moving on its own, my legs trembling and flailing, my arms and hands spasming. The floor was cold and harsh against my skin. I tried to roll over and step back up but it was impossible, my body had suddenly short-circuited, had failed me, and I managed to look up and Harmon was standing there, looking satisfied but grim.

"So glad you came by," he said. "Saved me and Carla here from having to fetch you, you dumb f.u.c.k."

Something in his hand crackled and there was a black plastic object, blue lightning flowing between two electrodes, and he knelt down and shoved it in my back, and I screamed again, flailing.

He pulled his hand back, smiling. "Amazing how ten thousand volts can get somebody's attention. Carla, c'mon, we don't have much time, what do you have to tie 'im up with?"

Carla replied in Spanish and Harmon said, "f.u.c.k it, we'll make do with what we got here. d.a.m.n jerk threw us off schedule. I'll take care of him, you see what the h.e.l.l's on that tape he brought. Must be something important if he was holdin' it like that."

Hands worked at my necktie and my belt, and my hands and ankles were tied together, and I tried to talk but my tongue had swollen up and it didn't seem like everything was working well. Carla left my field of vision and Harmon patted me down and pulled out my Beretta and laughed in my face.

"What the h.e.l.l were you going to do with that, boy?" he asked, waving it in front of my nose. "Threaten that shriveled old b.i.t.c.h with it, make her wet her adult diapers? Christ on a crutch, boy, she lets me and others in the campaign use her home and her food and her car to further the career of one Jackson Hale, you think you were going to do anything with this to change her mind? Or scare her? Stupid b.i.t.c.h thinks she's gonna get a slow dance next January twentieth with Jackson, and nothing like you can do anything about it."

Carla appeared, a bit breathless. "Saw the tape, jefe. Looks like you're on it, the day Spennie got whacked."

Harmon laughed and said, "Okay, destroy it, and when I say destroy it, melt the little f.u.c.ker so nothin' can get salvaged off it. The way they can reconstruct tapes nowadays, there's no way I'd take a chance on that. I'll take care of our friend here. Lord knows, we're gonna need him tomorrow."

Carla left my view again, and then Harmon grabbed my legs, started dragging. My mind was foggy, my legs and arms still twitched, and there was a metallic taste in my mouth, from where I had bit myself.

As he dragged me, he kept up a little chat, like he was happy to hear his own voice. "We had you set up months ago, pal, to do what had to be done. All that hard work, plottin' and plannin' in the shadows. Thought we had every angle figured out. But how the f.u.c.k was I gonna plan on you tossin' your cookies so you didn't get arrested at the shooting and get us all those lovely headlines? Fool ... But good plans always have Plan Bs, and you're gonna be nice and set for Plan B."

My head hurt, from having fallen and from having been dragged across the cold tile. Somewhere a door opened, the creaking hinges sounding so loud it made my head hurt even that much more, and Harmon knelt down again. "Here's the set. Old b.i.t.c.h Whittaker, her first husband drunk so much she didn't want a sloppy drunk living with her again, so she cleaned out first hubbies wine cellar, so it's empty now, and I hope you're not thirsty, 'cause that's where you're gonna be kept for a while ... oh, and one more thing. You be a good boy or I'll come back down there to visit you. Unnerstand?"

Again, I moved my mouth, but nothing came out, not even a whisper.

Crackle, crackle, came the noise, and I screamed once more, quite loud, arching my back, as the stun gun was shoved into me again. Harmon got up, breathing hard. "Didn't hear a word from you, so wanted to make sure I made my point. Okay, pal, here you go. Watch that first step."

Some first step. He dragged me through the door and shoved me down some stone steps, and my head struck the stone again, and my jaw, and the back of my head, and I yelled or screamed again, and there was the slam of the door, and then, darkness.

Darkness, where everything seemed to hurt.