The Governor's Wife (12 page)

"How do they get through the gate in the border wall?" Lindsay asked.

"They do not. They cross upriver. With the drought, they can drive that Hummer across." The doctor scratched his chin. "I would note in the file that his check-out was against medical advice, but then, I do not have a file for the boy. I do not even know his last name."

The Hummer abruptly drove off—without the boy. The big man carried the boy around to the back of the clinic where the land was open. They followed, and now Lindsay heard a WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP sound overhead. In the blue sky appeared a sleek black helicopter flying in low from across the river, the kind of helicopter often used by corporate executives who came to Austin to lobby her husband; its nose lifted and the helicopter landed in the desert a hundred feet behind the clinic, blowing up a cloud of dust. The big man carried the boy to the helicopter. The pilot opened the back door and helped load the boy. The big man climbed aboard, the pilot shut the door, and the helicopter then rose from the ground in a gush of wind that threatened to blow her over. They stared as it banked south and flew back across the river.

"Well," the doctor said, "you do not see that every day in the
colonias
."

"See, Mrs. Bonner," the congressman said. "On this side of the wall, it is another world entirely."

Bode Bonner's body teemed with testosterone and endorphins, hormones and morphine-like brain chemicals that magically washed away the pain and twenty years from his body and guilty thoughts of his wife and budget deficits from his mind.

He felt good.

It was the end of another day in the life of a Republican governor up for reelection in a red state: easy, if not exciting. At least his schedule allowed him plenty of free time to stay in shape. He had just finished pumping iron at the YMCA fronting the lake; now he was running five miles around the lake. Blood still engorged his arms and chest; consequently, he was running without a shirt—not a recommended practice for most middle-aged men and certainly not for a politician up for reelection.

But Bode Bonner wasn't like most middle-aged politicians.

First, for all intents and purposes, he had already won reelection. And second, he didn't look middle-aged. His belly was still tight and his abs still sharply etched. His shoulders were still wide and his arms still thick with muscle. His legs were still strong, even if his right knee burned with each step. So he ran with Ranger Hank but without a shirt.

"Hank, don't fill out your daily logs anymore. Reporters can get hold of them. Damn nosy bastards."

The State Capitol sat on a low rise at the northern boundary of downtown Austin. Eleven blocks down Congress Avenue, the Colorado River marked the southern boundary. In town, the river was called Lady Bird Lake, in honor of President Lyndon Baines Johnson's beloved wife, Claudia Alta Taylor Johnson, known to the world as Lady Bird. A ten-mile-long hike-and-bike trail looped the lake. Bode jogged the lake almost daily. He wasn't alone. The trail was crowded with walkers, joggers, bikers, dogs, and especially—

"Praise the Lord," Ranger Hank said.

—young, hard-bodied, barely-dressed women.

Bode glanced back at the girl who had just jogged past. She wore Spandex shorts that appeared painted on her tight buns and a tube top that barely constrained her prodigious chest.

"Amen, brother."

Running the lake was the part of living in Austin that Bode enjoyed the most, even if he and Hank were the only Republicans on the trail that day. Or any day. Point of fact, a Republican living in Austin was lonelier than a white guy in the NBA. Texas was Republican, but the capital of Texas was Democrat. Austin was the liberal, leftist, loony blue hole in the bright red donut that was the State of Texas. The newspapers, the UT faculty and students, the residents, even the homeless people—everyone in the the whole damn town was a Democrat. The only Republicans in town lived in the Governor's Mansion or worked at the Capitol.

Which drove the Democrats in town nuts. They couldn't stand the fact that Republicans outside Austin—which is to say, every Texan who didn't live in Austin—kept sending Bode Bonner back to the capital. To their city. To live among them. To govern them. So they vented their anger by writing scathing letters to the editor of the local left-wing rag that masqueraded as a newspaper and scathing messages posted on blogs no one read, so desperate to be heard—the Internet gave everyone a voice, but no one was listening. At least not to Democrats in Texas. So they consoled themselves with their abiding faith that they were morally and intellectually superior to the vast majority of Texans who pulled the Republican lever, assured that they voted Republican only because they weren't smart enough to vote Democrat.
That's it! We're not wrong! They're just not smart enough to know that we're right!
Satisfied with that explanation to this perplexing human condition, they patted each other on the back and got stoned. But they couldn't deny a simple fact: they lost. They always lost.

Which made jogging among Democrats in Austin considerably more enjoyable for the leader of Republicans in Texas.

"Sweet
femále
," Ranger Hank said.

He pronounced
female
as if it rhymed with
tamale
. Ranger Hank wore jogging shorts and the massive leather holster packing his gun, cuffs, Mace, and Taser. He sounded like a car wreck with each stride. He gestured at the firm bottom of the girl jogging just a few strides in front of them. With the buds inserted into her ears and connected to the iPod strapped to her narrow waist, she was oblivious to their conversation.

"What do you figure?" Bode said. "Junior?"

"Sophomore."

Since Democrats constituted your nonviolent offenders for the most part, Ranger Hank served more as Bode's personal driver, caddie, jogging partner, and fellow appraiser of the female anatomy than his bodyguard. Hank likened their jogs around the lake to an episode of
American Idol
, except the girls weren't singing.

"Damn, she's only a year older than Becca. I kind of feel bad for staring."

"But she's not your daughter."

"Good point."

He stared. She was a brunette with deeply tanned skin. Her tight buns were mesmerizing. Hypnotic. Bode's concentration was so complete that when she abruptly pulled up to tie her shoe, he almost plowed into her. He grabbed her by the shoulders to prevent knocking her down. He lifted her up, and she turned to him, close, almost as if she were in his arms. He inhaled her scent. She smelled of sweat and estrogen and youth and vitality and animal urges that ignited his male body. She looked even better from the front. But she wasn't tanned; she was Hispanic.

"You okay, honey?"

She removed one ear bud and gave him a once-over—the fine March day had turned warm so sweat coated his chest and no doubt made him look younger than his forty-seven years—and he saw the recognition come into her eyes. He expanded his chest and tightened his arm muscles and waited for the expected, "Oh, my God—you're Bode Bonner!" But it didn't come. Instead, she pulled away as if he had a poison ivy rash. Her eyes turned dark.

"You're a fucking Nazi!"

She replaced the ear bud, pivoted, and jogged away. Bode watched her tight buns bob down the trail.

After a long moment, Ranger Hank said, "You want I should arrest her?"

"For what?"

"Being a Democrat."

Bode exhaled and felt all the hormones and endorphins drain from his forty-seven-year-old body.

"If only it were a crime, Hank. If only it were a crime."

Ranger Hank drew the Taser from his holster.

"Can I at least Tase her? Fifty thousand volts, she won't speak in complete sentences for a week."

Eleven blocks north, Jim Bob Burnet sat in the Governor's Mansion watching
Fox News
, which ran 24/7 on the television in his office. He pointed at the screen.

"You want to go national in the Republican Party, that's the ticket."

Eddie Jones slouched on the couch.

"You can't get the boss on?"

"Another governor from Texas is the last thing the party wants at the top of the ballot."

Consequently, Jim Bob did not encourage Bode Bonner in that direction. What was the point? Just as he had wondered when his father had encouraged chubby little Jimmy Bob Burnet to play football at Comfort High.

"So this is it for him?" Eddie said. "Governor of the great State of Mexico?"

"If he were governor of Montana or Colorado or even Okla-fuckin'-homa, he'd be the leading presidential candidate. He's a regular Roy Hobbs."

"Who?"

"From that baseball movie,
The Natural
. Bode Bonner's a natural. He's got it all. The looks, the style, the voice—the man was born for the White House. But he was also born in Texas. And after George W., that disqualifies a candidate."

"That don't seem fair."

"This is politics, not preschool."

But it wasn't fair. Jim Bob Burnet had long ago accepted the fact that he would live and die in Bode Bonner's considerable shadow. But he could not abide the fact that he would also live and die in Karl Rove's shadow. Rove took his man to the White House; Jim Bob would not. When people spoke of politics and the making of presidents, Rove would always be the man from Texas. It seemed so unjust. Jim Bob had a Ph.D. in politics; Rove had never even graduated college. But Rove had George W. Bush—a candidate with a pedigree—and in politics that was a hell of a lot more important than a college diploma. A political strategist was just a jockey—he was only as good as the horse he was riding. Rove rode George W. from the Governor's Mansion all the way to the White House where they proceeded to make LBJ look good when it came to presidents from Texas, and that was full-time work. When media types asked Jim Bob about Rove's political genius, he always wanted to say, "Well, Rove proved his genius advising one American president—how'd that work out for America?" But Rove still cast a dark shadow over Texas, so Jim Bob kept his mouth shut. And his dreams shuttered.

There would be no White House for Jim Bob Burnet.

So, even though his candidate regularly repeated his desire to jump into the national political waters, Jim Bob talked him down from the ledge every time. Because the only thing worse than not taking your candidate national was taking him national and watching him fail spectacularly. Consequently, Jim Bob had resigned himself to a career of getting the Republican governor of Texas reelected every four years for the rest of his life—not exactly the work of genius—and teaching a class on politics at the LBJ School of Public Affairs. State politics. Not federal politics. Texas, not Washington. Minor leagues, not the majors. He often felt like a baseball pitcher with a ninety-eight-mile-an-hour fastball stuck in the minors his entire career. Sure, he was playing baseball, but …

"So, Professor, what exactly is my job description?" Eddie said.

"Odd jobs."

"Odd jobs?"

Jim Bob nodded. "Your skill set uniquely qualifies you to handle certain tasks for me during the governor's campaign for reelection."

Eddie Jones was not educated or refined or possessed of a particularly pleasing personality, but he was handy to have around when it was dark out.

"Like what?"

"I don't know yet. But things always come up during the course of a campaign that require special attention. Unforeseen things. Unexpected things. Unpleasant things that require an unpleasant man."

Jim Bob Burnet would never get his candidate into the White House, but he sure as hell wouldn't have his candidate kicked out of the Governor's Mansion. So he had hired Eddie Jones as an insurance policy of sorts. The sort of insurance seldom needed but which could prove career-saving if needed. A stop-loss policy. The business of politics was often unpleasant and often required an unpleasant man. He turned to the TV. The news returned from commercial break to a female Yale law professor arguing in favor of ObamaCare. They listened for a minute, then Jim Bob pointed the remote and muted her voice.

"Damn," Eddie said, "that bitch's voice sounds like the brakes on an old Ford pickup I had back in high school. And she's ugly as sin to boot. Hope to hell for her sake she can suck a tennis ball through a garden hose, otherwise she's gonna have to pay a man to screw her. Cash money."

Yes, Jim Bob thought, Eddie Jones was the right man for the job.

"The governor, he is a very lucky man," Congressman Delgado said, "to have such a wife as you. And that I am not thirty years younger, for I would take you away from him."

"You're very sweet, Congressman. And thank you for the late lunch."

Lindsay Bonner was still high on adrenaline when she and Ranger Roy followed Congressman Delgado into his downtown Laredo office situated on the north bank of the Rio Grande. The receptionist took one look at the blood on her suit and jumped up.

"Mrs. Bonner—are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

She was more than fine. She was a nurse again. At least for a day.

"She saved a boy's life," the congressman said.

"The doctor saved his life. I helped."

"You were amazing. Awesome, as the young people say. It was very exciting—would the boy live or die?"