The Governor's Wife (11 page)

"Easy there, Hank. No need to draw your weapon. Waiter just dropped a tray."

Jim Bob sat at the next table. His head was down, and his fingers were fiddling with that fucking phone again. Mandy never came to Bode's lunches with Becca. Call him old-fashioned, but it just didn't seem right to bring his mistress to lunch with his daughter, particularly since his daughter was the spitting image of his wife. Becca had inherited her mother's looks and red hair and Bode's height and athletic ability and penchant for rebellious acts in college, like turning lesbian her first semester.

Which reminded him.

"Jim Bob, give me that photo."

Without looking up from the phone, the Professor reached inside his coat and pulled out a newspaper clipping then held it out to Bode. He took it and unfolded it on the table and gave his daughter a look that said, "Well, what do you have to say for yourself?" She glanced at the photo and giggled.

"Daddy, they're just boobs. And it's legal."

The photo was of Becca and Darcy sunning topless at Barton Springs Pool, which was in fact legal in Austin. They were not named in the caption: "An Austin tradition."

"No. They're the governor's daughter's boobs."

"And the governor's daughter's partner's boobs," Darcy said. "They're nice, don't you think, Governor?"

Darcy was being a smart-ass, but Bode had to admit it, her boobs were nice. In the photo and in person. Both girls were wearing biker shorts and tube tops with no bras. Bode pulled his eyes off Darcy's boobs and regained his derailed train of thought.

"Becca, I'm trying to get reelected. If someone recognized you, I might've lost the evangelical vote."

"Oh, so it's not about me going
nekkid
in public, it's just about politics."

"
Just?
Honey, when you're the governor of Texas,
everything's
about politics."

She abruptly jumped up with a big grin, as if she had a straight-A report card to show her dad.

"Look what we did."

Having a lesbian daughter wasn't nearly as traumatic as Bode thought it would be when she had first broken the news. At least he didn't have to worry about her getting knocked up by some dope-smoking hippie. Sitting across the table from these two girls, both young and beautiful, tall and lean, you'd figure them for athletes, not lesbians. But they were both. Athletes and lesbians. They played on the UT girls' volleyball team. They were now pulling up the legs of their shorts to display their muscular buttocks and matching heart tattoos—which didn't elicit even a raised eyebrow in Kerbey's, except perhaps from Ranger Hank.

"You're not supposed to show your butt tattoo to your old man."

But he smiled. She was a chip off the old block. She had been hell on a horse, and she would've been hell on a football field, if she'd been a boy. Bode Bonner had wanted a boy but had gotten a daughter. And he loved her with all his heart, even if she was a lesbian.

"Boys marrying boys and girls marrying girls and both having babies and joining the PTA. They think that's just fine and dandy because that's their lifestyle—but what about the kids? Aren't they entitled to a choice in the matter? Would you have wanted two daddies or two mommies growing up? Heck, growing up with acne is tough enough without also being a social experiment. Vote for the children. Vote for the sanctity of marriage. Vote Republican. Vote for Bode Bonner."

"Cut!"

The director flashed a thumbs-up to Bode. They had stopped off at the studio to shoot a few campaign commercials hitting the hot-button topics: gay marriage, abortion, immigration, and gun control. "In times of economic despair," the Professor always said, as if lecturing a class on politics, "divert the voters' attention to the emotional social issues."

Hard to argue with success. Still, Bode wondered if he would rather have a grandson with Becca and Darcy or no grandson at all.

"We're ready, Governor!"

Bode faced the camera and read his lines on the teleprompter: "Since
Roe v. Wade
was deemed the law of the land, fifty million abortions have been performed in the United States. Fifty million children didn't get their chance at life. Because six Supreme Court justices—six
lawyers
—decided that their lives didn't count. Because those six lawyers think they're entitled to dictate the law to three hundred million Americans. That's not a democracy—that's a dictatorship. Choose democracy. Choose life. Vote Republican. Vote for Bode Bonner."

"Cut!"

Bode was standing in front of a green screen. The young director came over wearing a fluffy hairdo and a big smile. He looked like a college kid.

"We'll fill in the background later, put you in front of an abortion clinic."

Mandy arrived with an armful of clothes and a cowboy hat on her head. She reminded Bode of his big sister, Emma, when she was a teenage queen of the Kendall County Rodeo. Then she died. Bode removed his Armani coat and silk tie and put on a denim rancher's jacket and the cowboy hat. The director positioned Bode against the green screen again.

"It'll look like you're standing right on the border above the Rio Grande."

Bode recited his lines. "Juan Galván, a Mexican national, crossed the border into Texas, traveled to Houston, and robbed and murdered Sarah Brown, a thirty-eight-year-old mother of four. He was convicted and sentenced to death. The Mexican government appealed to the State Department for a stay of execution. The Feds agreed. I didn't. The State of Texas executed Juan Galván last month. But ten thousand other Mexican nationals still sit in Texas prisons, some on death row, all convicted of violent crimes against Texans. And more Mexican criminals cross our border every day. Because the president refuses to finish the wall and secure the border. Vote for Bode Bonner, and I'll secure our border. I'll make sure Mexican criminals stay in Mexico."

"Cut!"

One take. He was that good.

"We'll intercut shots of the dead woman and her kids," the director said. "Guaranteed tear-jerker."

"That was a bad crime."

Bode had signed the death warrant. Mandy returned with a .357-Magnum handgun. It looked like a cannon in her small hands.

"Where'd you get this from?"

"Cabela's," Mandy said. "I never knew how many women buy guns. I charged it to the campaign account."

Bode held the gun like Marshal Rooster Cogburn charging the bad guys in
True Grit
and read his lines: "Romero Polanco, a Mexican national, entered the U.S. illegally and traveled to Amarillo to work in a meat-packing plant. A month into the job, he was fired for showing up drunk. He left the plant and went directly to the home of Edna Smith, a sixty-six-year-old grandmother. He broke into her house and tried to rape her. But Edna had lived in the harsh Panhandle of Texas all her life, and she was as crusty as the land. She pulled her .357 Magnum and shot Romero six times in the chest. Mr. Polanco's criminal days are over but Edna's days are not—because she owned a gun. Guns don't kill—only bad people with guns kill. But liberals in Washington want to take your guns away and let your grandmother get raped by illegal Mexican immigrants. As your governor, I won't let that happen. Vote to keep your guns. Vote for your grandmother. Vote for Bode Bonner."

"Cut!"

The director came over to Bode.

"You like that one, Governor? We combined immigration
and
gun control."

"I never heard about this Polanco case."

"That's because it didn't exactly happen."

"It didn't?"

The director shook his head.

"Well, what did happen, exactly?"

"A grandmother shot a burglar."

"Illegal Mexican?"

"White boy on meth."

"So how the hell did he become an illegal Mexican?"

"The Professor. Literary license, he said."

Bode grunted then gestured to his political strategist. When Jim Bob arrived, Bode said, "This Polanco case is fiction?"

Jim Bob glanced at the director, who offered only a lame shrug in response.

"It's a good spot," Jim Bob said. "It'll play with the tea partiers."

"It's a lie."

"Riding the wave, Bode."

Lindsay had bandaged the boy's chest and was now checking his pulse and studying the intricate tattoo on his left arm—a large
LM
in fancy script—when the boy's eyes abruptly blinked open. The doctor had removed the ET tube, and the boy now coughed as if he had a sore throat, which he surely had.

"Doctor, he's awake." Lindsay wiped sweat from the boy's face and said in Spanish, "How do you feel?"

"Tired," the boy said. "Where am I?"

"The clinic, in
Colonia Ángeles
. Your friends brought you here."

"Where are they?"

"Outside."

"I must speak to them."

The doctor went to the front door and stepped outside. The two men soon entered and came over to the boy. But they looked at Lindsay.

"Uh, I'll leave you alone."

She walked over to the congressman, who was sitting at the doctor's desk in the corner eating yogurt. The doctor returned and joined them.

"Jesse, I stole a yogurt," the congressman said. "I missed lunch, which is not good for my low blood sugar. Will the boy be all right?"

"Yes. With rest, he will live."

"You're a very good doctor," Lindsay said.

"I worked the ER during my residency at Boston Mass—I handled many gunshot wounds. As you did. I had forgotten how valuable a skilled nurse is—and you are a skilled nurse, Mrs. Bonner. Do you still work?"

She shook her head. "I'm the governor's wife now."

"Ah." His eyes turned down. "I am afraid you have ruined an expensive suit."

She looked at herself for the first time since the boy had arrived; blood stained her linen skirt.

"Would you like to clean up? The restroom is there."

"You have a restroom?"

He nodded. "I installed a septic system and a two-hundred-gallon water tank, when I built the clinic. Electricity, water, a toilet—all the comforts of home."

The congressman wiped sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief.

"Except air conditioning."

Lindsay glanced over at the boy, who was pointing a finger at the men, as if he were giving orders. She turned back to the doctor.

"You don't have a nurse?"

"No. Inez is helpful, when she shows up. But she is not a nurse. And I cannot afford one. Of course, what nurse would work in the
colonias?
"

The congressman stood. "It is late, Mrs. Bonner. We have been here four hours."

"
Four hours?
Oh, my gosh—my Ranger will be frantic."

"Do not worry. While you and the doctor worked on the boy, I went back and told them what you were doing. And that you were safe. Of course, Ranger Roy, he wanted to come in after you, but the local police assured him that would not be a wise move."

She nodded. "He really hopes to shoot someone before he retires."

"Well, who would not?"

They all smiled, and she said, "Thank you, Congressman." She turned back to the doctor. "And thank you, Dr. Rincón."

"For what?"

"For letting me be useful again, if only for a day."

They shook hands, and he seemed to hold her hand longer than necessary.

"Uh, Jesse," the congressman said, again breaking the spell, "should they be doing that?"

He nodded at the men, who were attempting to lift the boy from the bed.

"
¡Todavía no!
" the doctor said.

He released her hand and went over to them. Lindsay and the congressman followed.

"What are you doing?" the doctor said in Spanish. "He must rest."

"He will rest across the river," the big man with the gun said.

"Driving him across the river will rip the sutures out."

"No drive," the man said.

"He still has a chest tube in him—it must come out in a day or two."

"Do not worry, Doctor," the smaller man said, "we will bring nurses in for Jesús."

"
Gracias
, Doctor," Jesús said.

The big man slid his arms under the boy like a forklift and raised him as if he weighed nothing. The doctor surrendered, but grabbed two bottles of medicine.

"Here, give him one pill every twelve hours. It is an antibiotic, to prevent infection. And this pill is for the pain, it is morphine. He is going to hurt. And move his legs, so he does not get a blood clot."

The smaller man took the pills and said, "Okay, we will do that.
Muchas gracias,
Doctor. We will not forget this."

They followed the men outside; Pancho trailed them. The man with the pills got into a black Hummer. The doctor shook his head.

"I told them, driving him across the river will tear the sutures."