Divine Fury (10 page)

Lee had first met Carr five years earlier when, fresh from earning a master’s degree in electrical engineering, she was hired by the News to cover the businesses and technology of Silicon Valley.
 
He knew her father was a successful New York lawyer and that she’d attended a very exclusive private school on Long Island.
 
He guessed that most of her classmates got jobs out of college at Manhattan art galleries or in the publishing houses.
 
He’d dated a few with that background during his New York years but always figured he was filling in until a lawyer or, better yet, an investment banker came along.
 
 

He still had Carr classified as a fun, smart, hyperactive “college kid” who seemed to fit right into the avant-garde social scene of the city when suddenly she’d been catapulted to city editor.
 
Lee had expected a short, disastrous tenure.
 
But Carr had somehow managed to coolly tame the crustiest newsroom hacks and survive mutilation while swimming among the power-hungry managers at the newspaper.
 
He had clearly underestimated her, maybe in more ways than one.

 
When he got her email late Monday morning asking him to come to her office, he wasn’t sure what to expect.

“Hiya,” he said, sitting down in the chair opposite her desk.
 
She was gathering up some papers into a pile which she moved to the corner away from him.
 
Carr had several framed posters advertising ballets around the walls between the windows that looked out over the newsroom.
 
She said they were remnants of a time in her life before she realized short ballerinas never leave the chorus.

“Hellooo,” she said, in a singsong way, smiling.
 
They were silent for a few seconds.

“So, what do you think about covering politics?” she finally asked.

Lee was a little taken aback.

“What?” he said.
 

“Well, not politics per se,” said Carr.
 
“I was thinking more of just the color.
 
The feature side.
 
Impressions of what’s going on.
 
Profiles of people behind the scenes.
 
That sort of thing.”

“So, you’re talking about the Harper campaign then,” said Lee.

“Oh, right.
 
Sorry.
 
I should have mentioned that first,” said Carr.
 
“Of course, his campaign will be a national story.
 
The first openly gay candidate with a legitimate shot at a governor’s slot.
 
Much less California.
 
And, for us, it’s a local story, too.
 
He’s one of ours.
 
His support will be mainly based here.”

“Sure,” said Lee.
 
“He’ll be a cause celebre in the Castro and in a lot of the city, actually.
 
And then, there’s the Harvey Milk thing.
 
The Second Coming.”

“Exactly,” said Carr.

Having grown up in San Francisco, Lee was well aware of the Milk legacy and how it still reverberated in the city and its politics.
 
Milk had been an instant national figure when elected as the first openly gay San Francisco city supervisor in the late 70s.
 
His tragic shooting death, along with mayor George Moscone’s, soon afterward by a former supervisor had sealed Milk’s status as both a martyr and an icon.
 

Lee had been 13 at the time and already fascinated with the news and politics.
 
Milk and Moscone had been all over the local newspapers and television.
 
He saw them in parades, and they appeared in Chinatown from time to time for an important wedding or funeral, or for the opening of a new park or restaurant.
 
The deaths had affected him deeply.
 
At the time, it was almost as if his two famous uncles had suddenly been murdered.

“Listen, it’s a great idea,” said Lee.
 
“There are bound to be a lot of stories coming out of the election.
 
Interesting ones.
 
Enough to put more people on it.
 
I just don’t know if I should be one of them.
 
I really prefer doing what I’m doing.
 
You know. The daily features.
 
In and out.
 
Stories that will amuse the readers without making them think too much.”

“Oh, c’mon, Enzo,” said Carr.
 
“I know you’ll be great at this.
 
There will be some amazing stories.
 
Fun ones, too.
 
Tell you what.
 
Why don’t you give it try?
 
You can pick and choose the stories, the events, whatever.”

“God,” said Lee, shaking his head.
 
“I don’t know.”

“Oh, c’mon,” she said.
 
Carr flashed her biggest smile and tilted her head.

“For me?” she added, giving him a slow wink that sent his adrenaline-testosterone level to a new high.

As he walked slowly back to his desk, having caved in to her request, it occurred to Lee that perhaps he was way out of his league.
        
      

* * *

Steve Walberg parked his black Blazer at the bottom of the hill and walked up the long driveway toward his sister’s house.
 
The weather had finally turned the corner to a warm Rocky Mountain spring and she was planting flowers along the side of the curved strip of asphalt.
 
She had on hiking boots, jeans over her long legs and a dark blue fleece shirt.

“Hi, Judith,” he said as she took off her gardening gloves, stuck a trowel in the ground and stood up to hug her brother.

“Hey, Stevie,” she said.
 
“Thanks for coming by.
 
Let’s go inside.
 
I’ll make some tea.”

It was a modest ranch-style house with three bedrooms, two acres and a view of the mountains.
 
She and her husband had stretched their finances to buy it and had needed her modest inheritance for the down payment.
 
They were only a 10-minute drive from the center of Bliss but with a town its size, it only took half that time to feel you were out in the country.

Seated at the kitchen table with placemats illustrated with bright yellow sunflowers, they
 
took their first sips of steaming English Breakfast tea with sugar and milk.
 
Her brother had thanked her perfunctorily but he hadn’t smiled in the ten minutes since Judith had seen him park his car below the house.

It had been that way since his return home seven years earlier.
 
He’d always been smart but shy, not somebody who gathered many friends or socialized much.
 
But within the family, Steve had always seemed comfortable and happy.
 
Playful.
 
Quick to laugh.
 
Even teasing his mother and sister who was his senior by two years.
 

Now, there was just the two of them.
 
Their parents had both died while Steve was in the army.
 
They had left their house to the two of them, although Steve was living there now.
 
They should have sold it after their parents died but hadn’t been able to sever yet another link with their childhoods.
  

Judith had seen no sign of the playful Steve since his return from the army.
 
He seemed withdrawn, emotionally flat except for the occasional angry outburst that could turn into a five-minute-long tirade before he fell back into a sullen silence.
    

“Molly tells me you have a lot of guns in the house,” Judith began, relieved to put on the table the reason she had asked Steve to the house.
 
“What’s that all about?”

Walberg shrugged, swallowed some tea, put it down and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

“You know I’ve always liked guns,” he said.
 
“Dad had a couple of hunting rifles in the house.
 
I’ve been taking care of those.
 
I got a couple more at the gun shows.”

“What for, Stevie?”
 
she said.
 
“Are you planning on hunting?
 
Are you target shooting?
 
Killing rabbits?
 
What?”

“This is gun country,” he said.
 
“You don’t need a reason.
 
They’re just nice to have.
 
But they’re an insurance policy, too.
 
That’s how I think of it.”

“Insurance?” she said.
 
“Insurance against what?”

“Well, lots of things,” he said.
 
“Mostly the government.
 
I mean, look at some of the things they’ve done.
 
Ruby Ridge.
 
Other places.
 
I mean, they’ll execute you for stuff like not paying taxes or owning guns.
 
What about our Second Amendment rights?”

“Stevie!
 
What kind of crazy shit are you talking about!” she said.
 
She was trying hard not to yell.
 
“Are you going to war with the government?
 
With the country?
 
With the U.S. Army?”

“The U.S. Army?
 
The fucking U.S. Army?”
 
he said slowly, spitting out the words.
 
“Do you know what they did to us?
 
They let us die like dogs!
 
I don’t owe them anything!
 
They owe me big time!
 
Big fucking time!”
   

Judith shook her head in exasperation.
 

“I’m not going to argue with you about this,” she said.
 
“But you can’t take the kids anymore.
 
Not if you’re stockpiling weapons over there.
 
I’m not going to let them be around that.
 
You’re always welcome here, you know.
 
You can visit here.
 
They always like to see you.”

“Okay,” he said.
 
“They’re your kids.
 
Do what you have to do.”

The short tirade was over.
 
The mask was back on.
 
As she watched her brother put on his jacket as he got ready to leave her house, Judith felt as if she were watching a stranger.
  

Chapter 12

ENZO LEE ARRIVED at the pier at Santa Barbara Harbor a little after 9:30 a.m. for the scheduled 10 a.m. departure, lured by the promise of hot coffee and sweet pastries as the culinary prelude to the trip.
 
He introduced himself to Harry Blount as they waited next to the 60-foot yacht, the
Neptune
, that the Harper campaign had chartered for the event.
 

“Could be warmer, huh?” said Lee, as he zipped up the jacket he wore over a thick wool sweater.

“Look out past the break to the open water,” said Blount, waving his arm toward the sea.
 
“What do you see?”

“Hmmm.
 
Nothing in particular,” said Lee.