The First Gardener (26 page)

Gray kept walking, gave a brief hello to Sarah, grabbed a cup of coffee, and walked into his office. Kurt and Fletcher followed, and Kurt shut the door. Sophie went straight to her water bowl, tucked in a corner next to an antique dresser that dated back to the Lamar Alexander administration.

Gray opened the file and thumbed through the police reports. A convenience store clerk had been murdered at three thirty that morning, the suspect quickly apprehended. A mug shot stared back at Gray, the suspect’s pale face hard.

“Should I know this man?”

Kurt leaned over Gray’s desk. “You should know that he was one of the men released because of budget cuts.”

Gray sat down. “What?”

“He was a nonviolent offender who apparently became violent. He did this right after he pummeled his wife.”

“Does he have a family?”

Fletcher squinted his eyes. “He beat his wife, Gray. Obviously he has a family.”

Gray’s eyes darted up in irritation. “The victim, Fletcher. I’m talking about the man who got shot. Did you forget there was a man who got shot? Or are you just worried about what this is going to do to a campaign?”

Fletcher’s eyes widened. “No, um . . . sorry. I honestly hadn’t really thought about his family. Want me to find out?”

Gray felt his anger rise. It seemed to be sitting right on the surface lately. He tamped it down and flipped through the file again. “Yes, find out. And find out about the prisoner’s wife too.”

“We
were
more focused on the campaign,” Kurt said, obviously trying to smooth things over. “That’s our job—to make sure that you are represented accurately.”

Gray tossed the file down on his desk. “How do you represent this accurately, Kurt? How do you accurately represent the fact that a prisoner we allowed to go free has beaten one person and killed another? And that somewhere right now a mother or father or wife or child is heartbroken over a family member who went to work last night fine and is never coming home again? How do you represent that any more accurately than what it is? It’s horrifying. And it’s our problem.”

Kurt and Fletcher shared a look. Then Fletcher opened his notebook. “So how do you want to handle our statement to the press?” he asked carefully.

“We’ll handle it like we’ve handled everything else that has come out of this office—honestly. We’ll tell them this is part of the tragedy of what is happening to our state. Assure them that we continue to monitor the prisoners we released, but that there’s always the risk of these men and women doing something we hope they won’t do. When they get out and see how difficult the economy really is, they probably have little hope for things getting better.”

Kurt sat in a chair beside Gray’s desk. “I think we need to connect this with something in the Newman camp—make it clear who spent us into this mess.”

Gray shook his head. “A man just died, Kurt. A woman was ‘pummeled,’ to use Fletcher’s word. And Newman wasn’t even in Nashville when all of this happened. So, no, we’re not pinning this on him. Plus, I’m thinking of not running.”

Fletcher’s pen about fell out of his hand.

Kurt stood. Sophie jumped slightly at his sudden movement, then walked over to her pillow and lay down. “You’re what? We’ve been working on this for months. Constituents have been patient because of all the loss you’ve suffered. But people have already invested in a campaign.”

“Well, they may have to uninvest.” His words were sharp.

Kurt was visibly trying to calm himself down. “Look, I know that this has been a—”

“Don’t you dare say it, Kurt.” Gray stood. He was close to Kurt now. “Don’t you dare say you know what this season has been like. You have no idea. You go home every day to Debbie, you tuck Carly and Tyler into bed, and you kiss them good night. You wake up in the morning and watch them eat breakfast and take them to school. And when you get home, Debbie has dinner on the table and she kisses you and she’s glad you’re there. And at night she crawls in bed with you and wants to hear what your day has been like. So don’t you ever say again you know how I feel. You have no idea.”

Kurt’s hurt was evident on his face. Gray didn’t care.

“Gray, I’m sorry. I was just—”

“Get out.” Gray motioned his hand toward the door and sat down in his chair. “Just get out. Fletcher, make the statement I told you to make. And I’ll let you both know when and if I decide I’m actually going to run in this election.”

Fletcher stood quickly and slapped his notebook shut. Gray was aware his behavior was different from anything his friends had ever experienced from him. But
he
was different. He would never be the same. They should know that. They should all know that.

Kurt opened the door and turned back toward Gray. “We have nine months until this election—less than that, really. The people deserve to know your decision.
We
deserve to know your decision.”

“Yeah, people deserve a lot of things,” Gray muttered. “But people don’t always get what they deserve, do they?”

Kurt let Fletcher walk through the open door, then followed him out, closing the door behind them.

Gray picked up the phone and dialed Sarah. “Can you get the phone number of the family of the victim from last night’s convenience store shooting? I want to call them.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.” He knew exactly what he’d say. He’d say what he wished people would say to him.

Gray leaned against the edge of his desk and stared at the television screen in his office. He could see dust on the left side of the screen because of how the light hit it. He thought of Philippe, who usually cleaned his office. His wife had been in the hospital with cancer. He and Mack had gone to see her in December before . . . well, before all of this. But he hadn’t thought about Philippe’s family since the miscarriage—not until this moment. He needed to check on them.

The ringing phone interrupted his thoughts. Sarah was on the other end with the information he had requested. He hung up with Sarah and dialed.

A voice on the other end answered weakly. “Hello?”

“Is this Mr. Gooden?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Mr. Gooden, this is Governor Gray London.”

There was a long silence. “Um . . . yes.”

“Sir, I just found out about the tragic loss of your son. And I want you to know how sorry I am.”

Another silence, then finally, “Thank you. Um, that’s nice of you to call.”

“I hope you know that if you need anything, you can reach us. We will do everything in our power to make sure justice is served to the man who did this.”

Gray heard the man’s voice crack. “Thank you.”

He worked hard to control his own. “You’re welcome, sir. . . . Well, that’s really all I called to say.”

“Okay, then.”

“Okay . . . good-bye.”

“Bye, now.”

He knew that in the grand scheme of things his call mattered very little. Why would that family care for his condolences when injustice had already fallen with all of its cruelty on them? But somewhere in the back of his mind, a thought pricked that the whole situation was just a little . . . convenient. A murder. An election. A released prisoner—one whom Gray had released. A bit extreme for Tennessee politics, but he’d heard of such things before.

Sophie scratched at his leg, pulling him back from his ridiculous thought. He reached over and rubbed the top of her head, then picked her up to let her sit on his desk. A delicate knock sounded on the door.

“Come in.” His hand still rubbed Sophie’s head.

Sarah walked through the door. “I just wanted to check on you. You okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I’m good.”

She walked toward him. He knew she wanted to talk, but he didn’t feel like talking. The only problem with his staff was that they all went so far back together, they sometimes crossed the employee-employer line and got right into his personal space. He had never really minded that much. He did now.

“How’s Mackenzie?” Sarah asked carefully.

“Alive.”

Sarah tilted her head. She was beautiful for sixty—petite, classy, always put together and soft-spoken. But all that could fool you because there was a tiger mama in there too. And with Mack and her daughter Anna being such good friends from childhood, Sarah seemed to feel that both he and Mack were part of her den.

“And how’s Gray?” she added.

He moved his hand from Sophie’s head. She shot up and headed for the edge of the desk. He caught her before she could jump. “I’m fine.”

“That doesn’t sound like fine, Gray. And you don’t look fine. You’ve been through a lot, you know.”

Her hand came up on the side of his arm. She rubbed it with the affection of a concerned mother. “It’s okay to feel all that pain. And it’s okay to not be okay.” She paused for a minute. “And it’s okay if you don’t want to go through with this election. There isn’t a soul who would blame you.”

Gray laid his head in his hands. “Yeah, I know.” A sudden thought sent his pulse racing again. He raised his head. His words came out measured. “Is someone in our camp not wanting me to run? Are people other than Newman’s camp talking about this?”

Sarah removed her hand but kept her voice soft. “No, Gray. This is me talking to you. Your mother’s gone, your father isn’t available the way you need him to be, and you and I have been through a lot together. I’m just saying there is nothing wrong with backing down if an election feels like too much.”

Gray fought the feeling of panic that rose in his throat. Sarah was hiding something. He could feel it. Someone out there was talking. They thought he was weak, thought he couldn’t handle his family losses and an election too. “I am more than capable of following this through. The people need me in this house. They need what I have to offer.” His voice was peppered with anger. “I may not be able to keep my children from dying, but I can certainly maintain a political campaign.”

Sarah’s expression turned to pity. He didn’t want her pity. “Okay. I want you to do what you think is best. And whatever you decide, I’m behind you 100 percent.”

She gave him a tender smile, one he didn’t want—and didn’t return. She walked out the door without saying anything else.

He sat there for several minutes, breathing hard, then picked up his phone. “Kurt, what happened today is going to burn out in a couple of weeks at the most. Let’s not give it any legs—not talk about it anymore after Fletcher does the news conference this afternoon. If our opponents bring it up, we’ll address it. Otherwise it is a dead issue to us.”

He slammed down the phone before Kurt could respond. He shook at the torment that was raging through his body. Scattered thoughts ricocheted through his head. He felt like he might be going mad. It was crazy—the thoughts, the frustration, all of it. He wanted to crawl out of his skin. That was the feeling. If he could just get away from everything that was inside, maybe he could survive this.

He put Sophie down on the floor, left her in the office, and headed to his car. He didn’t want to run for governor. He wanted to crawl into a hole and not come out. But there were things inside him that were more powerful than that desire. They felt new and real. They were his pride. His anger. His intense need to be needed. Somewhere. Anywhere.

He didn’t know what to do with any of those. More than that, he wasn’t sure what they would do with him.

But maybe they weren’t new at all. Maybe, just maybe, they’d been in him for a long time. It had just taken the perfect storm to wash them to shore.

Chapter 32

Mackenzie walked to her window and looked out, mildly surprised to see a snowy landscape. If not for the snow, she wouldn’t know if it was spring or winter. Nor did she really care. The clock on the bedside table said four o’clock. She had slept the day away.

She had hoped she would never wake up.

She had dropped her antidepressant pill on purpose this morning, then lied and told Gray she couldn’t find it. He’d given her another one, and she’d taken both.

The whole idea of medication was something new for her. She had been raised in a home where you rarely took aspirin when you had a headache. But things were different now that she knew the reality of depression. She’d thought that taking two pills at once might give her a jolt of life, or maybe they would just sweep her away. They had done nothing but make her sleep a little longer than usual. And her mother hadn’t come in to bother her.

When she climbed back into bed that morning, she had wanted Gray to kiss her. To touch her. To do something. He hadn’t even tried.

That was new. Gray had always touched her. Used to be, he couldn’t pass her without some kind of touch. A kiss on the head. A pat on the rear. A tug on her arm to pull her close to him. But this morning, he’d just walked out.

Mackenzie knew why. She was a walking tomb. She so disgusted him now, he couldn’t even touch her or hold her. He barely spoke to her. And she didn’t blame him. She disgusted herself.

She sat down in a chair, and her body dissolved in it. She wished it could swallow her whole. Her hand fell to the suede book holder that sat beside her chair, her fingers brushing one of the books. She fingered its corners and knew immediately what it was. Her Bible. She wanted to throw it out the window because everything inside was a lie. Everything that professed to be a promise was nothing but hollow clanging.