Divine Fury (38 page)

Finally, the musicians left to light applause from the crowd.
 
Then, a man in a brown suit and with a big voice took over the mike.
 
He started talking about Harper.
 
A two-minute biography.
 
College.
 
Law school.
 
Prosecutor.
 
District Attorney.
 
Congress.
 

“He has proven himself in Congress!” said the booming voice.
 
There was a light cheer in the crowd.
 

“He has proven himself to the people of San Francisco as their District Attorney!”
 
A much louder cheer erupted as the crowd got the idea now and reacted to the mention of their city.

 
“And, he will prove himself as GOVERNOR OF CALIFORNIA!”
 
A sustained yell of support and applause.
 
The blue and white signs were waving and bouncing up and down above the mass of people.
 

 
“Finally, Andrew Harper…”

Screams of “Har-per! Har-per!”
 
from the crowd.

 
“…will prove to this nation that a gay man can win election in California and PULL … DOWN … ONE MORE … PILLAR … OF HATRED … AND INTOLERANCE!”
 
A roar built louder and louder with the final dramatic words.

“I bring you…ANDREW HARPER!”
 
Canned music erupted from the sound system as Harper ascended the platform from the rear and stood in front of the microphone.
 
It was an old song, “Don’t Stop Believing” by the rock group Journey.
 
Harper was coatless, his striped dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his tie was loose and the sleeves were rolled up.
 

As the song rolled on and the crowd joined in, Harper mouthed the lyrics, clapped his hands to the beat and did a gentle dance to the tune.
 
Everyone loved it, cheering even louder and applauding with their hands in the air.

Walberg started moving forward.
 
He used the music and people swaying to the rhythm to slide through and inch his way toward the front.
 
He was like a man slowly winding his way through a crowded dance floor.
 
He focused completely on Harper as he closed the gap between them.

He was maybe 50 feet away now on the right side of the platform.
 
But Walberg saw he didn’t have a clear view of Harper.
 
Someone – a black woman with long braids, sunglasses, slacks and a dark jacket – blocked him.
 
Walberg looked across to the other side of Harper and saw a man in a suit with dark glasses in the same position.
 
He understood.
 
They were Harper’s protectors – undoubtedly police.
 
They were shielding Harper on the sides.
 
Walberg would have to approach from the center.
 

The music continued.
 
They were letting Harper have a long victory dance before he started speaking.
 
To the sway of bodies and bouncing of signs, Walberg started to thread his way toward the middle and closer, always closer, to the platform and the self-assured politician who was front and center.

He wasn’t thinking about the bomb in the backpack now.
 
He was close to the front with only three layers of people between him and the edge of the crowd held in place by the half-circle of police.
 
This is how he preferred it.
 
He wanted to see Harper’s face when he shot him.
 
That was the instant he craved.
 

The crowd was pressing in.
 
He could feel the pressure from behind as people inched closer to the front as the masses in back continued trying to push forward.
 
He could see the police, now with their sticks at chest level fighting to hold their perimeter.
 
They were straining.
 
They weren’t trying to hurt anyone but he could see they were determined not to give up any ground.
  

All Walberg needed was two seconds, enough time to steady his right hand with his left without getting jostled and squeezed.
 
He thought he would have that.
 
He could see the faces and eyes of the cops moving all over.
 
They were stressed.
 
The music, the crowd, the signs…all the chaos would hide what he was doing for a crucial second or two.

Walberg had his right hand in the pocket of the jacket.
 
His fingers found the Beretta and he could feel the safety with his thumb.
 
He flicked it off while he kept his eyes focused on Harper and struggled to keep his face in a relaxed half-smile.
  

He took a deep breath and started his count.
 
One…two…ahh!
 
Suddenly there was someone in his face.
 
He had his hand on Walberg’s jacket and he was talking to him.
 
Saying something.
 
Walberg couldn’t understand the words with the music blaring.
 
The guy had a square bandage on his chin.

Then, Walberg realized who it was.
 
The reporter.
 
He must have recognized Walberg.
 
What was he doing here?

Walberg took his hand out of his pocket, placed both palms on the reporter’s chest, took one step forward and shoved him…hard.
 
The reporter staggered back, tripped and went down.
 
The force of the shove pushed Walberg in the opposite way, away from the platform and into the people behind him.
 
He turned in that direction, lowered his head, and pushed through the crowd, past the happy faces, clapping hands and the signs bouncing up and down.

Walberg drove ahead, pushing people out of his way.
 
He left a wake behind him as he shoved, bullied and muscled his way toward the back of the mob.
 
He moved to his left.
 
The crowd started to thin out as he got to the edge.
 
There was another line of police but they were spread out here.
 
There was plenty of room between them and they were facing out, watching the
 
people coming to join the rally, not those leaving it.
 

He broke through the edge of the crowd and kept walking quickly but not so fast that he would attract attention.
 
Walberg glanced back once and saw no one following.
 
He crossed into a scruffy looking park and took a diagonal route through it.
 
There were buildings ahead on the left.
 
On the right it was the open roadway along the waterfront.
 
He wanted the buildings and the shadows.
 
He fought the urge to run and kept moving quickly away from the rally.

Behind him, Walberg heard the music stop.
 
Then, he heard the voice over the speakers.

“I’M ANDREW HARPER!
 
AND I’M RUNNING FOR GOVENOR!”
 
A unified shout erupted from the crowd in an explosion that continued on and on.

Chapter 49

ENZO LEE HEARD Harper’s voice and the crowd’s loud reaction as he reached the edge of the crowd where he had last spotted the Chicago Cubs cap.
 
He’d been wandering in the crowd, soaking in the atmosphere of the event and waiting for Harper to appear.
 
Then, he spotted the cap, the mirrored sunglasses and the same face that he remembered from the quick glance he’d taken behind him on Tunnel Road just before he was thrown head over heels through the line of redwood trees.

Lee made his way quickly through the crowd until he could grab the jerk by his jacket and berate him for nearly killing Carr and him.
 
After he was shoved, tripped over someone’s leg and fell to the ground, Lee had almost lost him.
 
When he got back to his feet, he just guessed left and headed that way in the crowded plaza.
 
After a couple of minutes, he caught a glimpse of the hat in the distance and redoubled his effort to fight his way through the crowd.

When he came out, he scanned the area – first, east toward the bay and then west toward the downtown area.
 
Deep in the adjacent park, almost through to the other side, he saw him – the driver of the green van hurrying away.
 
Lee set off after him at a trot.

As he passed through the park, Lee could feel all the soreness from the biking incident four days earlier.
 
His shoulder hurt with each jarring step.
 
He saw the cap disappear into the shadows at the end of the park and he kept heading in that direction.

As Lee hurried through the evening gloom, it occurred to him for the first time that maybe the guy he was pursuing was Walberg.
 
He couldn’t match him to the photograph that had run in the paper.
 
But without the hat and sunglasses?
 
With his head shaved and mustache gone?
 
Maybe.
 
It was possible.
 
But it didn’t make sense.
 
Why would Walberg have targeted him, running him off the road like that a few days earlier?
 
He had figured it was just a crazy driver.
 
God knows there were enough of them around.
 
After all, Lee wasn’t anyone famous or controversial.
 
Not like Harper.
 
But the coincidence of the guy showing up at the rally for Harper just seemed too great.
 

He slowed a little.
 
Be careful, Lee told himself.
 
Just see where this guy goes.
 
Even if he got into a car and Lee could just get the license number, that should be enough to find him later.
 
If he wasn’t Walberg, he and Carr could go after him for reckless driving, assault…something.
 
The son of a bitch deserved something for nearly killing him.
 
If he was Walberg, Lee could tell Connors and let the police deal with him.

Lee watched as the man in the blue cap moved down Jackson Street and then walked diagonally across Walton Square.
 
He continued north on Front for another two blocks.
 

After spotting the person trailing him a block away for the third time, Walberg knew he was being followed.
 
He looked and listened for someone else but there was nothing.
 
He assumed it was just the one.
 
It must be the reporter.
 
If the police were on to him, they’d already have called in reinforcements.
 
There would be cars, lights, guns.
 
It had to be the reporter.
 
Stupid fuck.

Walberg turned left down Vallejo and ducked into an alcove just off the sidewalk.
 
He leaned with his back against a wall and pulled out his Beretta.
 
He inhaled deeply a couple of times to fully catch his breath.
 
He set the backpack on the ground and turned back to face the way he’d come.
 
He leaned his face against the brick wall and waited.

When Lee turned onto Vallejo, he looked down the sidewalk to the end of the block and saw nothing.
 
Where had the guy gone? He stopped and listened.
 
It was silent.
 
No footsteps in that direction.
 
Lee crossed to the other side of the street and kept moving forward.
   

Walberg saw him coming down the opposite sidewalk.
 
It was dark and there were parked cars in the way but he had a clear shot directly across from where he waited.
 
He would wait until Lee was right across the street, and go for him then.