Atropos (25 page)

“It’s not going to happen that way, Sean,” she said. Her voice was unfailingly cool, gentle and kind. If Murphy didn’t love her so much, he would have kicked her in the knee.

“What do you
mean,
it’s not going to happen? It’s happening already! I am now not going to print hot stuff on a suspicious character because you’re in love with him.”

“I appreciate it, Sean, whatever the reason.”

“He told me to talk with you, the bastard, he knew you’d be this way. For two cents I’d walk out on the Hudson Group and bring this to somebody else to publish.”

Regina got very serious. “I couldn’t stop you, Sean.”

“Your fiancé could stop me. Permanently.”

“He told me on the phone that nothing was going to happen to you.”

“How nice of him,” Murphy grumbled. “Anyway, that’s not the reason I’m hanging around—if I go, who’ll look out for you?”

Thanks, Sean.”

“Yeah, don’t mention it.” Murphy swallowed a bitter taste in his mouth. It was time to change the subject. “All packed?”

Sources in Washington had said that Senator Van Horn was flying out to the Great Plains for the primary on Tuesday. Since he had stayed away from all of them so far except for the one in his home state, it seemed like a good bet he was finally going to anoint somebody with the patented Van Horn political holy water. This was likely to be the biggest story in a tight campaign; the media would be on it in force. Regina was heading out with the troops because of Murphy’s belief that her relationship with Mark Van Horn might give them angles the networks and the other magazines wouldn’t be able to get.

Regina had gone along with it quite sweetly, saying something about the importance of using every edge you could get. She might make a newswoman yet.

Then she had a little scoop for him. “Allan is coming, too.”

Murphy kept his lips tight together for ten seconds. His brain rejected a hundred possible comments about who was using whom for what. Finally, he just said, “He is, huh?”

Regina laughed, warm and happy. Even though he knew she was kidding herself, he found it impossible not to at least smile when he heard that laughter.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “This way you’ll be able to keep an eye on him.”

So here they were, one big happy traveling jug band, about to play a gig in the state capital. The propeller of the plane (Murphy hated prop planes) chopped the light reflected from the capitol building’s dome into little pieces of golden glitter as they circled low on the approach to the airport.

The gold leaf on that dome was probably the flashiest thing in that whole state, Murphy thought, but right here, over the next four days, the people in this state who bothered to vote in the primary (less than half of them) would be giving the world a strong nudge in one direction or another for the next four years.

They split up at the airport. Murphy was going to scare up some contacts in the Abweg and Babington campaigns while Regina and Trotter checked in at the headquarters the Hudson Group reporters had established at the building that housed the local Hudson Group paper. The ban on using the local journals to stretch coverage for
Worldwatch
didn’t apply to real estate, only personnel. Regina would go there, show the troops the executive colors, give a pep talk, cast aspersions on the networks and the other national newsweeklies, then go to her hotel and wait to see what Murphy had been able to set up with the Van Horn family or any member thereof.

He didn’t know what Trotter was going to be doing. He tried not to think of it.

Trotter hadn’t done much of anything on the way out here. It was almost as if he had been going out of his way not to get Murphy upset. That was ridiculous. Trotter had already shown he didn’t give a damn about Murphy one way or the other. Maybe he was doing it to please Regina. Maybe he was doing it to drive Murphy crazier than he already was.

He was succeeding at both.

Murphy put it out of his mind, just as he put out of his mind what Regina and Trotter were likely to get up to once she got back to the hotel.

The Van Horns were staying at the Ambassador, where Babington had his headquarters. Hudson Group reporters had checked that little fact out for significance, but had found none—Senator Van Horn had actually booked in first. The local Babington organization had apparently moved their rally here from an Elks club outside the city limits when the primary shaped up to be a bigger deal that it had seemed the year before.

Still, it was convenient. Murphy could talk to Van Horn people and Babington people all under the same roof.

In situations like this, Murphy preferred to enter hotels through the service entrance. Altogether too many people made a habit of hanging around hotel lobbies, sometimes even as lookouts posted to warn of approaching journalists. When you used the service entrance, not only did you get to meet a lot of interesting people who worked for the hotel, you usually got to talk to one or two of the people you wanted to talk to before the whole building was aware a reporter was on the premises.

You also, sometimes, got to see things you never expected to see. In this case, what Murphy saw was Senator Hank Van Horn and his son, dressed in work shirts and blue jeans (a phenomenon in itself) slipping into the service entrance just ahead of him, looking around them like two desperate farm boys determined to rob the place.

Murphy wanted to know about this. As quietly and unobtrusively as he could, he followed them past the loading dock and through the kitchen.

Murphy was enjoying himself. He’d risen high in his profession, but in the rising, he hadn’t forgotten how much he liked being the savvy street reporter, how much fun all this cloak-and-dagger stuff could be. He wondered for a split second if his hatred for Trotter wasn’t heightened by a twinge of jealousy at the realization that for Trotter, the cloak-and-dagger stuff never had to stop.

The Van Horns walked down a gray-enameled hallway to the service elevator. Murphy had to decide whether to let them go or jump on with them and see how they reacted.

In his current mood, it was no contest. The years rolled back, and he was Sean Murphy, street reporter, covering land swindles for the Hudson Group paper in Bemidji, Minnesota. He would dare all, find out all, tell all. He waited until the doors were about to close, then jumped on.

“Senator!” he said happily. “Mark! I was hoping to run into you.”

The Van Horns each put on a version of the irresistible Van Horn family smile and stuck out hands to shake. A startled animal falls back on instinct; all the Van Horn instincts, Murphy knew, were political.

“Murphy,” the Senator said heartily. “I wouldn’t have thought a little thing like a primary would get you out of the office.”

Murphy kept his face deadpan. The Senator had made a mistake already. A politician, caught off-guard, should
never
be the first one to mention any matter of substance.

“You make it important by being here, Senator. I don’t suppose you’re willing to give me a little hint as to whom you’ll be endorsing.”

Mark Van Horn chuckled. Murphy saw shrewdness in the young man’s eyes.

“That’s why we’re here on the service elevator,” Mark said, mock-ruefully. To avoid questions like that.”

“And the work clothes are just a disguise?”

Mark Van Horn laughed; his father followed a split second later. “I suppose in a way they are,” the Senator said. “We eastern types never see enough of the farm belt.”

“I’ve never seen it at all,” Mark said. “Except from an airplane. That’s bad.”

“Especially for a young man with connections and political ambitions?” Sean said.

Still smiling, the Senator held up a hand. “Let him finish law school before we get started on questions about political ambitions, shall we?”

“Let’s just say it’s bad for someone who’s concerned for the whole country,” Mark offered.

“Right,” Murphy said. “I think that answers any questions about political ambitions.”

Everybody laughed. Just a rollicking group of pals, Murphy thought, that’s us. Well, nobody was going to accuse him of not keeping his end up. “And besides,” he said, “more than one politician has come to grief because he didn’t know a tractor from a combine.”

“He had that explained to him this very day,” the Senator said.

Murphy looked at the indicator lights on the wall of the elevator. There weren’t many floors left. Time to get serious.

Mark Van Horn wouldn’t let him. “How did you come to take the service elevator, Murphy?”

“Oh, I saw you duck into the building. It was obvious you were trying to avoid journalists, so I figured this was a good chance to get you alone.”

His pals laughed at that one, too. Murphy went on. “Seriously, Senator, I’d like to get you alone again, for a real interview for
Worldwatch.
Regina Hudson would probably want to sit in.”

“I’m giving no interviews until after the primary.”

Murphy frowned. “Too late for us. How about right after you make your endorsement?”

“If I make one.”

“Of course. If you make one.”

“I think that will be all right. Mark, remind me to tell Ainley.”

The Senator’s son said he would, the elevator stopped, the doors opened, the men got out. Murphy told them he’d gotten what he wanted, and would be heading back down.

As soon as the door closed, Murphy knelt. He ran his fingers along the floor of the elevator and looked at them. Chaff. Bits of stem. Wheat dust. You don’t break into journalism in rural Minnesota without learning a lot about wheat. The Van Horns had been more than touring the Great Plains today, they’d been rolling in it. Murphy had been able to smell it on them, see it on their clothes, in their hair.

They looked—well, they looked as if they’d had a wrestling match in a recently emptied silo.

W
HEN THEY RETURNED TO
the hotel, Trotter sent Regina upstairs with the bellboy. He stayed behind to use a pay phone in the lobby. He dialed the Agency’s 800 number, said a code word (“incipient,” as in, “Please hurry, I’m in a pay phone and rain is incipient”). They put him through to Rines.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m at the Trent Hotel, Room 636. What do I do now?”

“Anything you want, as long as you stay in touch.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

Rines made a noise in his throat. He really was a prude. “No word from Albright, yet. He booked a room at the same hotel you’re at—computer flagged the Agency credit card—but he hasn’t called in. Pickett’s there, too.”

“That was why he was following the man, right?”

“He may still be following him. As far as we can tell, Pickett’s out, too. Maybe Albright is on to something.”

“Let’s hope.”

“Right. I’ll get you two together as soon as he checks in.”

“Right,” Trotter said. As he replaced the phone, he was thinking,
just give me an hour or two before you check in, Joe.

Because Trotter had discovered something almost unbelievable about himself. He was absolutely in love with the idea of having a child with Regina Hudson. Not just having one,
raising
one. Loving one. The idea had turned on a light somewhere inside him that got brighter and brighter as time went on.

It illuminated things he’d never seen before. It used to be that his life consisted of the job, with its roller-coaster mix of terror and exhilaration, pride and disgust—or of emptiness. Now there was something—at least the p
ossibility
of something (they’d been at this for several months now, without success)—that could supply a better reason than “habit” when he looked for reasons to go on.

The whole project had done wonders for Bash, too. She used to feel the weight of the Hudson Group and of her mother’s past like sacks of concrete strapped to her shoulders. Now her attitude was “Screw it—I’m young, I’m rich, and I’m doing the best I can.”

She was doing it as often as she could, too. When Trotter got into the room, Regina had already drawn the shades, turned on the air conditioner, and climbed in bed.

“I missed you,” she said.

“Business, business, business,” Trotter said. He started taking off his clothes.

The air in the room was cool on his skin, cool enough to be an added incentive for him to join the warm woman under the covers. Bright sunlight sneaked in around the edges of the shades and made stripes across the bed. One slash seemed designed to highlight for Trotter some of his favorite places to kiss—the place where her breast began to swell, her throat, her chin and mouth. As if he needed the help.

He slid in under the covers. “You made it cold in here,” he said.

“We’ll warm it up,” she told him, then kissed him.

Bash was right. They had it warmed up in no time. Soon, she was wet and open for him, and he joined with her. Once again they told each other “I love you.” And once again Trotter felt the wonder and delight of realizing he really meant it.

Regina said, “Oh,” then she said it twice more, then covered Trotter’s face with hot, wet kisses. He thought of how happy he was, he thought—but then he was beyond thought, just feeling it surging, exploding, subsiding.

Regina snuggled up next to him. “You think that one did it?”

“Maybe. Let’s get married soon. Like next week.”

“Even if it didn’t,” Regina went on, “I’m having just the best time trying—What did you say?”

“I said, let’s get married next week. Right after the stupid primary.”

“I thought you were saying we’d do it after this job of yours was done.”

“I’ve come to realize that there’ll always be another job. You can’t wait for things to be perfect before you do anything; you’ve got to do them when you’re ready to, and to hell with everything else.”

“And you’re ready now?”

“Mmm hmm. How about you?”

“I’m ready. I’ve been ready. And I never wanted a big wedding, anyway.”

They laughed together, for no special reason, then told each other “I love you” in various ways until they drifted off to sleep.

The telephone woke them. Regina gave a little scream, the way she always did when awakened suddenly, then grabbed the phone. She said hello, listened for a second, then extended the receiver to Trotter. “For you,” she said. “Rines.”