The Candidate (17 page)

The General spoke in a tone that suggested he would not take no for an answer. The pock-faced man appeared silently at Mike’s side and followed closely as he left the house. Mike did not even try to resist further. The General was so open, so plausible. His story seemed logical. It explained everything and it was harmless. It was only on the ferry out of Livingston, as Federico sat wordlessly beside him, that Mike realized that on the walls of photos – detailing every facet of the General’s life and career – there was not a single photograph of any children. Nor any sign of a wife. Carillo had no family to send to college. Mike also came to another conclusion: having Federico drive him back to the capital was not an act of kindness; it was to verify that Mike actually left.

* * *

THE TWANGING accent on the end of her cell phone sounded familiar and terrifying and Lauren recognized the voice immediately. Dee Babineaux.

“How are you doing,
ma catin?
” Dee cooed. “I hope I’m not catching you at a busy time.”

Lauren looked around the Starbucks café in downtown Manchester. It was full of students and a sprinkle of campaign workers and other bloggers. She stopped writing about a Stanton speech from a campaign stop in West Manchester that morning.

“No, not at all, Ms. Babineaux,” she stammered.

“Call me Dee. Everyone does,” Dee said.

“What can I do for you, Dee?” Lauren asked, trying out the name for size. It did not seem to fit. She was suddenly swimming in waters way out of her depth.

“I’m just getting back to you about that little matter over Christine Hodges making a money transfer to Guatemala that you asked about,” Dee said. Her tone was casual and pleasant and betrayed no hint of stress.

“I’d been talking to Mike Sweeney about that,” Lauren said.

“I know,” Dee replied. “Mike’s busy with other things so I thought I’d call you and let you know we checked it out. Seems the Senator and his wife spent a bit of time in Guatemala back in the 1980s, but you probably knew that. General Carillo is an old friend and they are just helping him out in some tough times. It’s for a college fund for his kids, I think.”

“Sounds like a nice gesture,” Lauren said. “It would make a nice story even.”

Lauren sensed a sea change on the other end of the phone even as Dee continued in her friendly voice.

“Doesn’t it just? But here’s the thing. The Hodges are a pretty private pair. They want to keep this campaign about policy, not personality. They’re pretty jealous about their private lives and their family friends. You know what I’m saying?”

Lauren did. She knew exactly what Dee said and – far more importantly – what she meant.

“I understand. But a story is a story, Dee,” she said as her heart suddenly raced with her own nerve at defying Dee’s warning.

Dee gave a little snorted laugh and there was a moment’s pause on the other end of the line.

“You liked getting that little flag-burning picture, didn’t you, sweetie?” Dee asked. Dee’s voice was calm and steady now. It filled Lauren’s ear with delivered menace, an assurance it was Dee who was in control here, not Lauren. The sounds of the Starbucks faded out of Lauren’s hearing, replaced by the hiss of Dee’s voice in her head.

“We both know what that’s done to your little blog’s profile. The
Horse Race
is quite a big deal now. I’ve even seen you on the TV all dressed up and looking like the cat that got the cream.”

Lauren’s throat went dry. She knew Dee was going somewhere with this, but she was caught up in the words, pulled along like a riptide.

“Well, let me spell things out for you. You keep scratching my back and I’ll keep scratching yours. There’ll be other little goodies in the future for you if you stay on the right side with this other thing. I’ve told you the Hodges want this campaign to be about politics, not their personal lives.”

“Is that a threat, Dee?” asked Lauren.

Dee tittered down the line, a sound of genuine mirth, as if Lauren cracked a joke.

“Oh, Lauren. You’re new to this game, honey, but once your hair gets a little grayer you’ll come to understand that I don’t make threats. I don’t need to. I make promises.”

“What’s in it for me?” Lauren asked.

Dee laughed again. “I told you,
catin,
we like you right now. We appreciate the good work you’ve done. Maybe we’ll get you a bit of face-time with the candidate. I’m sure I can arrange a nice big interview. Maybe we’ll dig up a few other things about Stanton and pass them along. Just stick with us and you’ll go places, Lauren. You’ll go all the way. You’re gonna be big, Lauren. Do we understand each other?”

“I understand,” she whispered.

“Atta girl,” said Dee, and with a click the phone went dead.

Lauren suddenly felt the real world around her come back into focus again. Her body fizzed with adrenalin and she felt herself literally shaking. She knew Dee opened a door to her, a gateway to a whole secret world where the prizes were enormous. She closed her eyes. “You’re gonna be big,” Dee said. For the first time in her life, Lauren believed it.

CHAPTER 12

THE GENERAL’S MAN, Federico, drove with no regard for anyone else on the road. He pitched the spluttering rental car down the highway back to Guatemala City with a grinding of gears and a groaning engine. He weaved in and out of the traffic like a football player racing for a touchdown, thumping down with an open palm on the horn and gesticulating wildly at other drivers.

Mike sat in the back and gripped the underside of the seat with both hands as his knuckles turned white while the scenery raced by. He looked in the rear-view mirror and tried to see Federico’s face. He wondered if the driving was meant to intimidate him. But Federico’s scarred visage betrayed no hint of a threat. Indeed he whistled softly to himself in between letting out violent expletives at the next crawling bus that slogged along the road.

“My friend. I am in no rush,” Mike said. He reached out a hand to rest on Federico’s shoulder. “Your country is beautiful. I would like to see it at a slower pace.”

Federico glanced back at Mike and then looked sideways at the landscape rushing by outside. They had been on the road a couple of hours but already the highway started to climb into the highlands as the land crinkled up towards the clouds above. Federico shrugged, as if seeing the view speed by for the first time.

“Eh!” he grunted and wound down the window to spit out a gob of phlegm. “I need to get some fuel.”

He jerked the car off the road and into a gas station. Mike got out with a feeling of relief. Finally, he was no longer thrown around like a rag doll by Federico’s driving. They were in a small village that lined the main road with a strip of shops and restaurants. People milled around, mostly Indian-looking women in brightly-colored dresses and men in tattered work clothes. Mike breathed out and walked into a roadside restaurant while Federico began to harangue one of the attendants at the gas station.

A lone, elderly woman, her face wrinkled and round as a rosebud, stood behind a metal hot plate and fixed small round discs of dough into fat tortillas. She smiled at Mike as he walked in and bustled towards him, eager at the prospect of a customer. He glanced at the menu and ordered three chicken tacos by pointing at the words in a menu written on the wall behind her. Almost instantly the smell of frying meat filled the air.

He turned to the old woman and tried to engage her in conversation but she just smiled at him and nodded her head. He could not tell if she did not understand his accented Spanish or if she was deaf. She handed over a paper plate loaded with food that was doused liberally in chili sauce and accepted a few grubby quetzals in return. Mike took a bite and started to speak to the woman again when a sudden burst of Spanish outside cut through the air like gunfire.

Mike recognized the voice instantly. He swore, dropped the food on a table, and ran outside. Even from thirty yards away he heard Federico scream insults at a small, Mayan-looking man crumpled at his feet. Federico loomed over the man and yelled something about showing him some respect. He lifted a foot and delivered a sickening thud right into the man’s belly that prompted the man to let out a piercing squeal. Around them a group of women skittered, clearly terrified of intervening.

Mike yelled out, “What’s going on?”

Federico, poised to deliver another blow, suddenly stopped and looked up. His face was a bloated, twisted mask of rage, but the sight of Mike penetrated his temper. Federico’s chest, which heaved like an ocean swell with each breath, calmed. He looked down at the man and then back at Mike.

“He was thinking of robbing me,” Federico said. “I am sure of it. He was lurking around the back of the car when I went to pay.”

The man beneath him moaned softly and put up his hands to protest his innocence. A thin trickle of blood leaked from a nasty tear in his scalp. Mike felt the urge to shout at Federico but he strangled the words. That could only make things worse. The two men stared at each other. Then Mike shrugged as nonchalantly as he could. “I have to make my plane,” he said.

Federico smiled thinly. He understood. “Of course,” he said and he gestured to the car.

Mike stepped over the man on the ground to get to the back of the car. The man held his head in his hands, not looking up, evidently praying that the monster who beat him would drive off. Mike thought to whisper an apology but he desperately wanted to hit the road again. Federico was at least halfway to a psychopath and there was no telling what he might do if Mike antagonized him by siding with his victim.

As soon as Mike was seated, Federico hit the accelerator and the car lurched forward and set off a blare of horns from traffic that swerved to avoid them. Federico looked at Mike in the rear mirror, caught his eye and flashed a grin.

“That bastard was a thief,” he said. Mike understood, with a mix of shock and shame, that Federico saw him as an ally. As if Mike approved of the beating.

“This province is no better than down at the coast with all those black devil Garifunas,” Federico said. “It is the same everywhere with all those low types. These ungrateful peasants who have no education or morality.”

For a moment Mike thought to protest and make a stand. But he stopped himself. This was an opportunity. There was such real anger and emotion in his voice that Mike knew he could play Federico, push him to talk and see if he opened up. Mike felt a surge of energy: he was back on his mission.

“Where are you from, my friend?” he asked.

“Antigua,” Federico said. “The same place as the General. It is the old capital. A beautiful city. People come from all over the world to see it.”

Mike asked him to say more and Federico soon talked in his gruff accent of his hometown where he grew up on a tiny farm just outside the city walls. Mike let him riff and hoped he enjoyed the experience of talking. It was an old trick that he learned while interviewing witnesses and sources for court cases down in Florida. He always tried to get his subjects to talk about themselves in the most general sense. Then as the river of information flowed he sought to guide them and fish for bits of words that floated by. It worked easily with Federico. Mike nudged his talk in the direction of Carillo. Federico revealed they met when he was a young volunteer in his first year in the army and the General was his first commander. They rose together, with Federico appointed his aide. He never left the General’s side through the rest of his career.

“The General is a great man,” Federico said, the pride in his voice obvious. He was like someone talking about a sports hero or an admired father. “He helped save this country and they repaid him by sending him down to live with the blacks in that mosquito-infested swamp. It is a crime! There should be statues of him all over Guatemala. But instead when peace comes he is sent into exile.”

Federico’s anger was very real. He spoke in a rapid-fire Spanish that Mike found difficult. His words poured from deep within him, like a hole in a dam that relieved a long pent-up pressure. The road climbed firmly into the mountains now and the countryside around them became green and lush. They sped through villages where Indian women lined the streets and sat at market stalls, their vibrant dresses like splashes of paint spilled against the tarmac of the roads. Their bronze skin and black hair also reminded him of another woman, thousands of miles away, in a solitary jail cell in Iowa.

“Tell me more about the war,” Mike said.

Federico laughed, a crackling sound in the back of his throat like the sudden moment dry bark catches alight in a fireplace.

“You Yankees never really understand what happened here. It is like you forgot us and our struggles. But we have not forgotten.” He shook his head and gestured out the window. “These people were all communists back then. All
los Indios
were Reds. They fell for that propaganda from Moscow and Havana and wanted to take this country back to the Stone Age. But we fought them hard. We fought them in the fields and the jungles. We even fought them in the churches.”

Federico turned to look at Mike, driving without looking at the road ahead. His eyes were wide and their pupils dilated.

“There is blood all around here,” he said. “Indian blood. Our blood. We fought for our country and have the scars to prove it. The General has especially. He fought the war harder than anyone. You Yankee liberals never understand it. They always say we went too far, but they never understood the price we paid.”